


Disgrace of Winter

by MissChrisDaae



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Post-Thor (2011), Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Loki Angst, One-sided Petyr Baelish/Sansa Stark - Freeform, Petyr Baelish is a pedophile, Post - A Feast for Crows, Pre-Avengers (2012), Sansa-centric, Slow Burn, not really Sansa/Harrold Hardyng
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-14 23:29:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 16
Words: 39,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1282657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissChrisDaae/pseuds/MissChrisDaae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Loki falls through the void of the Bifrost, he is found in a very different otherworld: The realm of Westeros, in the Vale of Arryn, and the one who finds him is Alayne Stone. Taking pity on the unconscious stranger in the snow, she takes him in, intent on restoring him to health despite the misgivings of Littlefinger.<br/>When the mysterious man from the sky awakens, his green eyes have the strangest ability to pierce the deepest recesses of Alayne's heart, mind, and soul. Loki quickly proves himself a formidable ally to have, impressing even Littlefinger, and cements a position in the household. Despite this, he mourns all that he is lost, and does everything in his power to conceal his past, but he is born of winter, just as Sansa Stark is, and they both feel it calling them to a greater destiny.<br/>Littlefinger might consider himself Alayne's mentor, but it is Loki who is slowly finding his way into the young girl's affections, and even as the plans for the betrothal of "Alayne" to Harry the Heir continue, Loki and Sansa are slowly breaking down one another's walls and making plans of their own. Winter is coming. And, one way or another, there will be a Stark in Winterfell there to meet it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Alayne

“Sweetrobin, we should go back inside before you get too chilled,” Alayne tried to coax the little lord back towards the doors, but Robert ducked out of her reach and around one of the trees. Alayne shivered as a cold breeze blew at her face, and then jumped in surprise as a loud boom rattled what must have been the entirety of the Gates of the Moon. “Robert!” she blurted, looking around desperately as he came running back into her arms.

“He came out of the air!” Robert said hysterically. “He just fell out of the air!”

“Maester Colemon!” Alayne called, hugging Robert tightly. “Ser Lothor!” Maester and knight both heard her cries and rushed to her side. “Sweetrobin, tell us, what did you see?”

“A man! A man came out of the sky, he was flying! They’re not supposed to fly into the Eyrie! Does that mean—”

“No, Sweetrobin,” Alayne interrupted. “Marillion will not be coming back to hurt any of us. Maester Colemon, please, take him inside and attend to him before you fetch my lord father. Ser Lothor, come with me, please?”

“I should slay him!” Robert insisted, his body already starring to shake. “I am Lord of the Eyrie! I should defend the Vale!”

“Sweetrobin, you must have your strength if you want to defend the Vale. Ser Lothor won’t let any harm come to me. Maester Colemon, please.” The maester bowed and led Robert back inside as Alayne turned to Ser Lothor. “If you’d draw your sword, ser, I would feel much better.” He did so, and Alayne began to retrace Robert’s footprints, keeping near the knight. As they turned the corner, she saw what had frightened Robert so.

Lying in the snow was an unconscious man, his skin almost as pale as the snow itself, made only paler by the raven hair framing his face. A long face. She’d once had a brother with that kind of a face. The stranger was dressed in a curious kind of armor, made of many little pieces that didn’t seem at all practical for battle.

“Should I deal with him, my lady?” Ser Lothor asked.

“Not yet.” Alayne bent down and pressed a hand to the stranger’s forehead. It felt cold as ice, but she could feel a vein pulsing and hear shallow breathing. “He is alive. We should wait for my lord father.” The man shuddered a little under her hand, and she reconsidered. “No... help me bring him inside.”

“My lady?”

“Do it,” Alayne’s voice was unusually firm. “We will not risk the wrath of the gods in doing him harm.”Ser Lothor looked taken aback by the severity in her voice, but nodded, and pulled the man upright, carrying him back to the keep.

_Winter is coming._ Alayne shook her head as she followed. _Winter is coming_ was not a phrase she was supposed to use anymore. Not until Petyr had everything settled with the betrothal and she married Harrold Hardyng. And yet, something about this stranger made her remember more keenly than ever. Ser Lothor brought the man into one of the empty chambers and laid him on the bed as Alayne went to go find her father.

Petyr was in his solar, speaking with Maester Colemon. Both men stopped when she entered the room. “Is Sweetrobin feeling better?” Alayne asked politely.

“Of course he is.” Petyr dismissed Maester Colemon with a wave of his hand. “Now, sweetling, what is it you wanted?”

“Robert was not imagining things. There really was a man in the snow. And I felt the earth shake—”

“We all did. The question is, why? Think on that, my dear. With all the peculiar things that are happening these days, why would a man simply appear in the snow?”

“I don’t know… He was unconscious, I had Ser Lothor take him to a guest chamber.”

“One far from your own, I trust,” Petyr remarked. “We don’t want to soil your reputation.”

“Of course.” Alayne drew a little closer to him as he beckoned her forward. “Are you displeased with me?”

“He’ll provide a distraction for a time, enough for us to get some work done, but then we will have to dispose of him. We don’t know anything about them, he could become a liability. An unpredictable piece in the game.”

“Please, don’t kill him,” Alayne requested softly. “Not while he’s here. Please, don’t break guest right.” Her words found their mark, and Petyr nodded, standing up to approach her.

“Once we’ve sent him on his way, then,” he told her. Alayne pursed her lips. “Is that not what you wanted to hear, sweetling?”

“Can’t we let him live?”

“Maybe if he can prove useful. If not, then we will have little choice. For now, see that Maddy is kept away from that room. We don’t need any rumors flying about. And keep our little lord Robert quiet about what he saw.”

Alayne nodded dutifully, looking up at him. “Father? What happens if he never wakes?”

Petyr smiled in the way of Littlefinger, the smile that made Alayne’s stomach turn sour. “If he never wakes, that will be to our advantage, sweetling.”

The thought of that cold, broken man, already looking like a corpse, lying dead... _He reminds me of Jon_. “Has there been any news from Lady Waynwood and Ser Harrold?” she asked, changing the subject.

“So eager to wed, are you?” Littlefinger disappeared back into Petyr, the smile changing from manipulative to doting.

“Eager to go home,” she corrected. “You know that, Father.”

“Patience, sweetling. Patience. You’ll meet him soon enough, and everything will be secured. I have news from King’s Landing, would you like to hear it?”

“Is it news of Lord Tyrion?”

“Sadly, no. There’s been no trace of the Half-Man. But Cersei’s hold is slipping, she becomes more hated by the day, and is no longer regent.”

“Will you still give her Harrenhal?”

“It would seem unwise to be giving anything to our dear Lady Lannister now,” Petyr quipped. “We don’t want to make anyone think we’re her friends, now do we? It would be best to honor Lady Lysa’s wishes, and continue to keep the Vale out of the war as much as possible.”

“Or at least make it seem as though the Vale is not in the war,” Alayne said, receiving another Littlefinger smile for her comment. “You are playing to win, aren’t you, Father?”

“Of course I am. So are you,” he reminded her. She could see him leaning in, clearly intending to kiss her, and she turned her cheek to meet his lips. He pulled away, raising an eyebrow.

“We don’t want to soil my reputation,” she said softly. “I’ll go now, Father. I’m sure you have tasks you need to attend to.” She left the solar before he could say otherwise. Fathers did not kiss their daughters the way Petyr always tried to kiss her. 


	2. Loki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Much to his own chagrin, Loki awakens, and meets his hosts. One he finds too similar to himself, and the other piques his curiosity just enough to distract him from his woes.

Loki’s mind was somewhere between life and death, between light and dark, and his entire being seemed to be screaming out in pain, the last words he heard still echoing in his head, a thousand knives plunging into his soul. _No, Loki. No._ All the fires of Muspelheim and all the wretched cold of Jotunheim— _not my true home, never, never, never—_ nothing, no torture could ever compare to this nothingness, this constant falling with no end….

He felt someone touch his forehead, someone with a small, gentle hand, and his eyes slowly flickered open, his gaze met by a pair of irises that were the deep unfathomable blue of a river. A soft gasp emitted from the owner of the blue eyes, and before Loki could focus his vision, the eyes disappeared, and the sound of feet on a stone floor pulled away from him, punctuated by the closing of a door.

As he waited, his eyes slowly began to adjust to his surroundings, giving him a better sense of where he was. Whomever had found him had brought him to a small stone chamber, sparsely furnished with a single chair and table, a wooden chest at the foot of bed, and one small snow-covered window. The only light in the room was provided by a set of torches bolted into the walls. Pushing against the fur lined bedding, he raised himself up, grimacing at the pain still wreaking his body.

“You’re awake then,” a man’s voice said.

“And alive, it would seem,” replied Loki, turning to see who was speaking to him and wincing internally at how dry his throat was, how it made his usually smooth voice sound so raspy. Standing in the doorway was a man with greying black hair, a similarly colored beard, and grey green eyes that seemed to be looking at Loki as though he were some kind of wounded beast. Eyes that were calculating how much of an immediate threat Loki would be. Behind the man stood a tall, slender girl with lovely porcelain features, thick chestnut hair, and the river-blue eyes that Loki had first glimpsed upon waking.

“Father?” she asked, looking up at the man, who nodded. The girl stepped forward, holding a cup in her hands, and offered it to Loki. “Please, ser. Drink. It will help.” Loki took the cup from her and raised it to his lips. The taste of mulled summerwine hit his tongue, warming him inside.

“You have my thanks, my lady,” he said politely. “But your kindness is wasted on one such as I.”

“Alayne, leave me alone with him a while,” the man ordered.

“Yes, Father.” The girl, Alayne, nodded, and left the room in a sweep of plain brown skirts. Just as she closed the door, Loki caught a glimpse of auburn in her hair. No… it must have been a trick of the torchlight.

“And whom do I have the honor of addressing?” the man asked, taking a seat in the chair, his gaze assessing Loki once again.

“There are very few who would consider addressing me an honor now,” Loki answered. “But if you want my name, then it is Loki.” He could not bring himself to say _Loki Odinson,_ nor _Loki of Asgard_ , because those had been beautiful, terrible lies, but _Loki Laufeyson_ and _Loki of Jotunheim_ felt equally verboten.

“Loki what?”

“Simply Loki. And is there honor in addressing my unwanted host?”

The man chuckled dryly at Loki’s retort. “There are those who would tell you no. I am Petyr of House Baelish, Lord of Harrenhal, Lord Paramount of the Trident and Lord Protector of the Vale.”

“If all people in this realm have so many names, remind me never to make any more acquaintances, or I daresay it will take far too long to meet them.”

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?”

“Do _you_ think me so, Petyr of House Baelish, Lord of Harrenhal, Lord Paramount of the Trident and Lord Protector of the Vale?” Loki threw the titles back at him mockingly.

“I think that you are interesting. Not Westerosi, I take it, though you speak the common tongue well.”

So that was where the void had taken him. Westeros. One of the continents on the Lost Realm that he’d heard stories about when he was a child. Apparently, the Allspeak extended to this realm, which did make matters easier for him. “No, most definitely not Westerosi.”

“What, then? Essosi, perhaps? One of the Free Cities? Slaver’s Bay?”

“None of those places. I doubt you have ever heard of my realm.”

“That makes things difficult, then.” Baelish stood and drew closer to him, leaning in so that they were eye to eye. “Because I do not know if I can trust you.”

“You think I trust you?”

“You are protected by guest right, I cannot harm you without incurring not only the wrath of the gods, but my daughter as well.”

Loki let out a scoff of derision. “Why do I believe you fear the latter more than the former?”

The distrustful look in Baelish’s eyes took on a new quality, one of impressment. “Perceptive fellow, aren’t you?”

“I would like to think so. But there have been recent events that have called the level of my skills into question.”

“Would those events have anything to do with Alayne finding you in the snow after young Lord Robert claimed you fell out of the sky?”

“They might. But I will thank you not to ask after them further. And if you’re so determined to assuage your daughter by not harming me, I might ask you for a knife so as to finish what I attempted to start.” Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have even had to ask, but he had discarded his usual cache of blades back in Asgard when Gungnir had been given to him.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I think you might be of use to me.”

In an instant, Loki’s hands were around Baelish’s neck, his eyes blazing furiously. “ _What do you take me for_?” he snarled. “Some kind of relic to serve at your leisure? Do you think because I see no point in living any longer, I would give my life over to a little worm like you?” His fingers pulled a silver mockingbird pin from the collar of Baelish’s robe, and he placed the sharp point on the soft spot just beneath the jaw. “Even in my disgrace, I am worth a thousand of you. And I am not bound to your customs, your laws, or your gods. I can kill you, easily. I killed my own sire without a second thought. What’s to stop me from cutting your throat now?”

Despite the threats to his life, Baelish remained oddly calm, something Loki could not help but respect, ever so slightly. “I am not suggesting that you serve me, but that we serve one another. A partnership of sorts. You have no other loyalties, and I intend to have a very large portion of this realm under my influence.”

“Not interested.” Loki pressed harder, and a single bead of crimson blood appeared as the pointed edge of the pin broke through Baelish’s skin.

“Are you so certain?”

“Whatever you can offer me will pale in comparison to everything I have lost.”

“Tell me what it is you want. I’m very good at getting what I desire, you should be no different.”

Loki pulled the pin away, laughing disdainfully. “Your arrogance is nearly unparalleled, Petyr Baelish. I can think of only one person who has ever surpassed you in such a regard, and that person is worlds away.” Even as he spoke, he felt a pang in his chest, remembering the last sight of that person’s face. _You said no, brother. If you hadn’t wanted me to fall, why didn’t you go after me? You could have saved me, and you didn’t._ “I’m afraid I’ll have to refuse your _generous_ offer.”

“You owe my daughter a life debt,” Baelish told him.

“I didn’t ask for your daughter to ‘save’ me.”

“Never the less, that fact remains. If anyone decides your fate, it will be Alayne. And she has already made it clear no harm is to come to you by any hand. Even your own.”

“Well, aren’t you the _doting_ father.” Loki jabbed the pin back into the collar of Baelish’s robes as forcefully as he could, still glaring. “Seeing as you’re not going to do what I want, kindly _get out_. Or does your precious guest right deny me privacy as well?”

“We will speak of this again later,” Baelish promised. “I like a challenge, and you’ve presented me with an excellent one.”

“I hope you’re not so foolish as to believe I will make it easy for you.”

“I’m counting on you not to.”

As Baelish left, Loki almost let himself smile, but he quelled the urge. Perhaps there might be some fun in exile. If he could delude himself into thinking these people were worth the effort. If he could keep his secret. Revealing his true form had potential as a way of getting himself killed, but he had no intention of dying a monster. Even after losing everything, there had to be some way of preserving his dignity in his final moments.

He leaned back, closing his eyes, and took a long breath. Baelish was not to be trusted, that much was evident. And Loki had given over the upper hand to him the instant he’d lost his temper. That was enough to make him furious all over again.

“Ser?” He turned to see the girl, Alayne, standing in the doorway and holding a tray. “My father sent me in to speak with you.”

“And he doesn’t fear for your reputation?” Loki asked skeptically.

“There is a knight outside the door.” She set the tray down on the table, looking at him with a perfect expression of modesty and humility. “Ser Lothor will protect me.”

“I see. And do you have a long string of titles, too, or are you simply Alayne of House Baelish?”

“Lord Baelish is my natural father. I cannot use his name, so I am Alayne Stone.”

“I see,” he lied. She didn’t carry herself like a bastard, the weight of her burdens clearly ran deeper than that. She moved as if she were afraid that one wrong word would condemn her. As if he might kill her at any moment. And irritated as he might have been with her, he couldn’t imagine being able to kill her.

“Father says your name is Loki.”

“It is.”

Alayne’s blue eyes looked him over solemnly, and he thought he saw a flash of homesickness in them. “Are you from the North?”

“No.”

Her face fell slightly. “Where do you come from, then?”

“I don’t feel that’s something you need to know.”

“Are you always this rude?”

“No. But I don’t want to talk to you. Or anyone else.”

“Why?”

“You ask too many questions, Alayne Stone, and I am already put out with you for pulling me from the snow.” He turned away from her, staring at one of the stones in the wall.

“Was I supposed to have left you there to die?”

“Yes, you were. That _is_ the intent of a suicide, you know. Dying.”

“Why would you want to die?”

“I wouldn’t expect you to be able to comprehend it. I’ve given you all the gratitude I can, now go away.” He heard her start to leave, and then stop.

“I would do it again,” she murmured. “I would still have you taken from the snow and brought you back here. Even though you’re being so hateful now.”

“Why?”

“Because I have had enough of death and pain to last the rest of my life.” She slipped out the door before he could reply. Loki felt himself smile ever so slightly. Petyr Baelish might have decided to make a challenge out of Loki, but Loki had just found a challenge of his own. Finding out the secrets of Alayne Stone could make for a very interesting distraction in what would be his presumably eternal exile.

 


	3. Alayne II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alayne finally meets her would-be betrothed, but the mystery that Loki offers still has her thoroughly preoccupied.

“Where are you going?”

“The sept.” Alayne barely looked back at Randa.

“Alayne, sweetling, the gods will not be going anywhere. Sit with me a while longer,” Randa complained. “Surely you want to talk about our little Sweetrobin’s nameday.”

“I’m going to pray for his health. Besides, I’ll see you at the feast, Randa.” Alayne pulled the thick brown shawl around her shoulders a little closer to her body. The early evening air was bitterly cold, enough so that she had no desire to venture out into the courtyard. The sept would afford her some semblance of privacy. She pushed open the doors, intent on making her way to the Father’s altar.

“Hela, is there nowhere I can be left alone?” The icy, smooth voice of Loki cut through the air, and she whirled around in shock to see him standing in the shadows of the Stranger’s altar. The candlelight from the other altars made his face look even colder and harder than usual, the angular features nearly unmoving as he glared at her. His eyes burned into her, pieces of frozen wildfire against the alabaster of his skin. She shuddered slightly, shaking the comparison away. What would Alayne Stone know of wildfire, after all?

“Forgive me, ser. I didn’t realize you were praying here,” she apologized, bowing her head.

“What makes you think I was praying, little Stone?” His lip curled in derision.

“This is the sept,” she pointed out, looking for any kind of recognition in his features, but finding none. “You don’t keep the Faith of the Seven, ser?”

“No, I don’t.” He lifted one of the candles from the Smith’s altar, turning his glare on the statue as he blew out the flame. “I see no point in keeping any kind of faith.” The candle dropped to the floor, and he crushed it under his boot, making Alayne step back in shock. “Besides, what do gods pray to, hmm?” he asked dryly. She pursed her lips, unsure of how to answer, and he kept talking. “As I said, I do not keep this Faith of the Seven, this… sept was merely the only place where I could escape the insufferable ramblings of that sickly boy. If I have to hear him call me _Lord Stranger_ one more time, I may wring the little wretch’s neck, your ‘guest rights’ be damned.”

“Lord Stranger?” she repeated, wondering what would have possessed Robert to give Loki that name.

“I’ve had my fair share of epithets in my life, little Stone, but that’s one that has no significance to me.”

“Alayne,” she corrected. “Not little Stone.”

“Bah. I’ll call you what I please. Everyone else seems to be giving me such treatment.”

“If you want the significance of Lord Robert calling you by that name, look back.” She pointed at the Stranger’s altar. “That’s the Stranger.”

“Cheerful looking fellow,” remarked Loki, sarcasm dripping off his every word. “And not so honored as the others, if the candles are any indication.”

“The Stranger represents death and the unknown, few will pray for such things.”

“So I am made Lord of Death by the words of a feverish child.” Loki sniffed. “Fascinating. Does he give names to all of the visitors who come here?”

“N…no. But you’re the only visitor who has ever… been this way. And as you said, he’s a child, he’ll use whatever names suit him.”

“It doesn’t suit me,” he snapped, his gaze still fixed on the Smith in utter loathing. Alayne bit her lip, trying to think of something else she could ask him about.

“If you don’t keep a faith, what do you believe happens when… when we die?”

“Nothing, I should hope. Death should be final. An escape from the madness that living presents.”

“You still want to die,” she realized.

He finally turned his stare from the statue to her, the pale green of his eyes burning into her.“Of course I do, you foolish girl! Did you think just because I’ve stopped asking for knives, I’ve changed my mind?”

Alayne stepped backwards, placing a hand on the Maiden’s altar to steady herself. “Why? What could possibly have happened to you that makes death seem preferable?”

“That is not your concern. As you clearly said, you do not regret _saving_ me.”

“Then why haven’t you… thrown yourself from a tower?” It was all she could think of, the stories of the beautiful Lady Ashara Dayne, who had thrown herself from the Palestone Sword at Starfall.

“Because it wouldn’t kill me, of course,” he scoffed. “I’m not that easy to kill.” 

For a moment, Alayne wondered what would have happened if Ser Lothor had tried to cut off Loki’s head. A sour taste rose in her mouth at the thought of it, of scarlet blood staining the pure white snow…

“Hela, girl, are you quite well?” Loki asked sharply. “You look as though you’re about to faint.”

“I’m fine… But if you’re not going to pray, I should like privacy to do so.”

“What is it you pray for?”

“Why do you care?” she replied sullenly. “You’ve been nothing but hateful to me.”

“Call it curiosity… Alayne.” He stepped towards her, his face softening slightly as he raised his fingers to her cheek. The cold touch of his skin made her shiver. Why was he still cold to the touch, cold as death? “Tell me. What do you ask your gods for?” His voice was surprisingly gentle, and, coupled with his touch, it caught her off guard enough that she could barely stammer out the truth.

“I… I meant to ask the Smith to grant Robert strength… it’s his nameday—”

“Oh, yes. How could I forget? The boy keeps prattling about the events planned for tonight.” Loki rolled his eyes… such eyes… “You’ll be putting in an appearance, I suppose?” She nodded. “What else did you want to ask them for?” 

“I won’t tell you. My prayers are my own.”

His eyes flashed for a moment, then he smirked. “So many secrets you keep, Alayne Stone.”

“I do not!” she protested. But his growing smile told her she had done so too quickly. Petyr would not be pleased…. “I am only Alayne. Only a bastard.”

“Hm.” Loki’s hand, which had not left her face, traveled upwards, brushing against her hair. “I think not. I daresay you and your father have just as many secrets as I do.”

“Anyone may have secrets,” she countered, summoning every ounce of courage she had. “That doesn’t mean they’re meant to be shared.”

“No, I should think not…” Something flashed across his face, something resembling sorrow and regret. “But that does not mean they cannot be uncovered.”

“Will you leave me to my prayers, ser?” she asked again.

“Do as you like.” He lifted his hand from her head, the trace of emotion completely gone, and slipped out of the sept. Alayne took one of the unlit candles from the Smith’s altar and held it to the flame. As the wick caught, her lips formed the usual petitions, the ones that were to be expected of her, and then she moved towards the other altars, doing the same. Father. Mother. Warrior. Maiden. Crone. At the Stranger’s altar, however, she paused. 

_Death and the unknown…._ She could not speak to death, but _unknown_ seemed to be Loki’s nature in a word, from the little she knew of that nature. As if unbidden, she moved to light a single candle for the Stranger. _Whatever lies ahead unknown, let me be able to face it. Let Sansa Stark be allowed to return home…_

_I am Alayne… Who else would I be?_

_Sansa. I would be Sansa. I will be Sansa once again when I marry Harrold…._ She pushed those thoughts back down. This was not the time, nor the place to let such memories return. Leaving the sept, she returned to her own chambers, retrieving the gown that had been made for the evening’s festivities.

In keeping with the avoidance of the wrong colors, the gown was pale green, nearly the same color as Loki’s eyes, with a pattern of silver mockingbird feathers on the sleeves, neckline and hem. Rich, but simple and modestly cut, as befit the natural daughter of the Lord Protector. She changed on her own, not in the mood to endure Maddy’s chatter. And the task of her hair was not for anyone to see.

She glanced in the mirror, grimacing slightly at the sight of the threads of copper peeking through the soft brown. There was only so much dye left, she could not waste it. So instead, she twisted her hair into a simple coil at the base of her neck, arranging the strands so that the auburn was as well concealed as she could manage. Then it crossed her mind. What if Loki had seen when he touched her?

Trying to calm herself, she took a long, deep breath. There was no way Loki could possibly know the significance of auburn hair, know anything about the Starks, or the Tullys, or any other house. She was jumping at shadows, nothing more. Discarding her unused hairpins on her vanity, she left her room, going to down to the hall. The musicians were already playing, and it was easy enough to make her way to the place that had been assigned to her.

“You look enchanting,” Petyr whispered in her ear as she took her seat. Alayne smiled demurely, keeping her eyes down.

“Thank you, Father.”

“He’s here tonight,” Petyr informed her, his face so close that she could feel his hot breath on her neck, “our Young Falcon. He’s here with Lady Waynwood. Remember what I told you, everything depends on you charming him. Not that such a task will be difficult for you.” He gestured down the table to their right, where a sandy haired youth is grinning and chatting with Randa and Aldar. Alayne’s heart caught in her chest. _Harry the Heir._

“May I meet him?”

“Soon enough, sweetling. Robert wants a good show first.”

“Of course…” Her eyes drifted across the hall, meeting Loki’s gaze from the shadows. He was standing by the doorway, dressed in black with a hint of emerald fabric at his throat and sleeves, the battered gold vambraces from his own armor still clapped around his wrists. The look on his face was one of… longing? His expression was sullen, as usual, but there seemed to be something deeper beneath it. A kind of homesickness.

“Lord Stranger!” Robin called, standing up imperiously. “Lord Stranger, do they teach people to fight where you come from?”

“They do.” Loki stepped forward, his face tight, all traces of softness disappearing. “What of it?”

“Can _you_ fight?”

“I can. What of it?”

“I want to see.”

“I might be inclined to demonstrate. However, that would require a weapon and an opponent.” Loki strode towards them. “Neither of which I have at present.”

“If you can get a blade, ser, I’d be more than happy to fulfill the second requirement,” Harrold offered, standing up with an eager grin. His voice was warm and rich, like sunshine. “I’m always up for a challenge.” Slowly, Loki turned towards him, as if Harrold had struck him. Then, his face became smooth and expressionless.

“I suppose. That doesn’t remedy the first point.” He gave Alayne a very pointed glance. “Do you trust me enough to believe I won’t plunge a dagger into my heart the moment it enters my grip, my lady?” Alayne bit her lip as all eyes turned on her, but nodded shakily.

“Did he say a dagger?” someone whispered incredulously. Other guests seemed just as shocked by Loki’s apparent choice of weapon, but Petyr stood, drawing a Valyrian steel blade from his hip.

“Will this suffice?”

Loki moved closer and plucked it from Petyr’s hand, his fingers closing around the dragonbone handle as he tested it with a single slice in the air. “Very well, I think.” He smiled slowly. “You have my thanks, Lord Protector.”

“Are you sure you don’t want anything else?” Harrold asked, moving around the table to the cleared space where Loki was standing. They stood at a height with one another, polar opposites in every other respect; one burly, sunny and warm, the other lithe, dark and cool.

“I need nothing else. Now, the terms of this little match. Not to the death, I presume?”

“To first blood?” Harrold suggested, drawing his sword.

“To third blood,” Loki amended. “It makes things more interesting.”

“Fight already!” Robert demanded. “I want to see you fight, Lord Stranger!”

“Sweetrobin, sit down.” Alayne placed a hand on his arm to lower him back into his chair. “They’re about to start.”

Harrold was the first one to attack, raising his sword with one arm and bringing it down as Loki calmly raised his empty left arm. The steel of the blade hit against the gold vambrace in a shower of sparks, making several people gasp, Alayne and Robert among them. Loki should not have been strong enough to deflect the blow, yet he was doing exactly that. As if for good measure, he skimmed the side of Harry’s ribs with the dagger, drops of blood flying into the air and spattering the stone floor.

“One,” he said, grinning as he pushed Harrold to the ground. Harrold rolled out of harm’s way just as Loki brought down the dagger again. Alayne grabbed Petyr’s arm in fear.

“Don’t let him hurt Ser Harrold,” she begged softly, her fingers gripping him tightly.

“You should have made this request before they started,” Petyr whispered back. “Don’t worry, sweetling, it won’t go so far as a tourney would.”

Harry was on his feet again, dodging Loki’s strikes and making his own. Even to an untrained eye, it was clear they were fighting in two different ways. Harrold was using a traditional Westerosi style, using stabs and slashes, and solid, firm movements, the stone of the Vale in his blood, while Loki moved like a Northern blizzard, quick and unforgiving, striking decisively and unexpectedly. And it was giving him a clear advantage as he struck Harrold’s empty hand, drawing blood from the pad of the palm. “Two.”

“One!” Harrold countered with a grin, his sword breaking through the skin of Loki’s leg. People were leaning forward, becoming more and more interested in the fight. Alayne noticed Randa whisper something to Aldar, who rolled his eyes at his sister’s words.

“For the Vale, cousin!” Robert shouted, pounding his fists into the arms of his chair. “Beat him for the Vale of Arryn!” If Harrold heard, he gave no acknowledgement of it, most likely out of giving priority to dodging another strike from Loki. Alayne felt her heartbeat growing faster and faster. It was almost something out of a song, day fighting night, summer against winter…

_Winter is coming…_

Harrold interrupted her thoughts by knocking Loki to the floor. She wasn’t certain how he had done it, she would have thought Loki too quick to be caught like that, but the stones cracked as he hit the ground, inciting another gasp from all who were watching. “Two.” Harry pressed the tip of his sword against Loki’s chest, drawing blood from beneath the curved gold collar on Loki’s chest.

“Two for you,” Loki agreed. “And three for me.” With a flick of his wrist, Loki tossed thedagger up, slicing the side of Harrold’s face. He held out his left hand, catching the blade by the handle as it fell back to him.

For a moment, everyone was silent. Then Harrold threw back his head and laughed fully, the warm sound bouncing off the walls of the great hall. “Ser, you are a marvel!” He sheathed his sword and extended his hand to Loki. “Ser Harrold Hardyng.”

Loki paused for a moment, then took Harry’s hand and pulled himself upright. “Loki Silvertongue,” he said softly. Petyr stood up and started clapping, a signal to the other guests to join in. Robert was sulking slightly as he applauded. Loki casually tossed the dagger up in the air, catching the blade between his fingers. “Would you like this back, Lord Baelish?”

“No, you can keep it as your prize,” Petyr smiled slowly. “For a very impressive display.”

“Hm.” Loki smiled back coolly, sliding the dagger into his left vambrace as he turned and slipped out of the hall.

“Ser… you’re hurt.” Alayne stood and rushed over to Harry’s side, pulling out her handkerchief and pressing it to the cut on his face. He smiled at her as she did so.

“If this is the prize for defeat, my lady, it’s one I’ll happily accept.”

She blushed deeply, ducking her head shyly as she dabbed at the blood. “You may want to see Maester Colemon.”  
“I shall if you tell me your name, my lady.” Harry caught her chin on the fingertips of his left hand, raising her face to look at his, blue eyes twinkling at her merrily.

“Alayne,” she told him breathlessly, watching as realization flashed across his face.

“My lady.” He caught her hand and brought it to his lips gently. Randa let out a little gasp from her seat, as did several of the other young ladies in attendance. Alayne was certain her cheeks had to be melting from how hot they were as Harry let go of her hand and gave her a bow. “Aldar, my friend, will you help me heed her wishes?”

“Come on, you idiot,” Aldar scolded, rolling his eyes as he stood and grabbed Harry by the arm, leading him from the hall. “Before you bleed out all over my father’s floor.”

“And you—” Alayne turned to see Randa at her elbow. “You, come with me.”

“Randa…” Alayne didn’t have the chance to protest as Randa dragged her out one of the back doors of the hall. “What are you doing?”

“Getting you alone!” Randa closed the door behind them. “Oh, you’re clever, Alayne, Harry’s not going to be able to get you out of his mind after that, and every girl in the Vale is going to envy you!”

“He… he was bleeding, I merely thought—”

“Oh, you _innocent_. There’s nothing a man loves more than being tended to. Haven’t you heard? That’s how Robb Stark fell for the little Westerling girl he ended up marrying, which is why the Freys killed him.” Randa kept chattering, but Alayne couldn’t hear anything else. Her stomach was turning sour, a bitter taste rising in her mouth and the corners of her eyes stinging. But she would not weep, she could not, she had no reason to weep for Robb Stark.

But Sansa did.

_I am not Sansa now, I am Alayne. Alayne. I must be Alayne._

“…if you look.”

“Hmm? I’m sorry, Randa, I was—”

“Thinking about Harry?” Randa teased. “I don’t blame you at all, you lucky thing. But I was talking about our mysterious Ser Silvertongue, as he calls himself.”

“He’s no knight, he doesn’t keep the Faith of the Seven,” Alayne said softly. “What about him?”

“He’s down there, look.” Randa pointed through the nearby window into the dimly lit courtyard. Alayne peered out and saw her friend was right. Loki stood in the center of the yard, still and pale in the moonlight, his face raised to the sky in stony silence. “Maddy tells me that he does it every night. Curious, isn’t it? I wonder why.”

“Have you thought to ask him?”

“He doesn’t seem to like me very much. Nor anyone else. How do you know he doesn’t keep the Faith of the Seven?”

“He… he was in the sept, he told me—”

“Alayne, look!” interrupted Randa, grabbing her by the arm and pointing. Before their eyes, Loki had drawn the dagger and run it across his palm in a single, decisive swipe… Alayne swallowed, waiting for the snow to become stained red, but that moment never came. No blood spilled out from Loki’s hand, there was no indication that he had even attempted such a thing. A scowl marring his alabaster features, Loki returned the blade to its place in his vambrace and disappeared into the shadows. “Seven hells, what is he?” Randa whispered in awe. “Do you think Lord Robert might be right about him being the Stranger?”

“I think we might have had too much wine,” Alayne offered, taking Randa by the elbow and guiding her back toward the hall, thinking of a lie to spin. “We must be imagining things. There’s no way he could have cut off his hand and grown another.”

“That’s not what I saw, though.”

“Clearly, we’re both seeing things, then,” Alayne insisted as they returned to the hall. “Come now, the dancing’s about to start.” From his seat at the high table, Petyr smiled at her slowly, indicating where Harry and Aldar were standing with a small nod of his head. A reminder that Alayne still had a task to complete. Loki’s odd behavior was going to have to wait.

 


	4. Loki II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki takes the time to think things over and rearrange his priorities.

“Don’t tell me. 'Alayne, Randa and Mya have gone off, and I was hoping we might cross blades again.'” Loki sheathed the dragonbone dagger, turning to face Harry with a roll of his eyes. The sandy-haired boy smiled sheepishly, and the expression hit Loki with the now-expected flash of nostalgia.

 _He looks so like Thor… Stop it,_ he scolded himself, _Thor’s gone. You’re on your own, you were never really his brother, stop mourning the lie that was your life._

“I really think I’m improving. And I like sparring with you.”

“You’re supposed to be here paying court to Alayne, not sparring with me,” Loki retorted. “So either you’re not as charming as half the serving wenches would have me believe, or Alayne plays coy more than any other maid I have ever met.”

“Ah, there’s something interesting in the mystery of it all, isn’t there?” asked Harry, drawing his blade, still grinning. “The other half of the serving girls are talking about you, after all.”

“Hmm.” Loki dodged smoothly, grabbing the youth’s right arm with such force that the sword was knocked to the ground. He started twisting Harry’s arm backwards, ignoring the boy’s yelps.

“That’s enough! That’s enough, I yield, I yield!” Loki held on a moment longer before releasing his grip and dropping Harry to the ground. “Seven hells, how do you move so quickly?”

“I’ve been trained for it,” Loki answered shortly. “Brawn has never been my domain, so I have learned how to use what assets I do have. You’re too grounded in the styles you have been taught, Hardyng. You will not learn how to fight as I do. That is simply a fact. You don’t have the time.”

“I could try—”

“You’d fail, and humiliate yourself. I held back at the feast so that you would not be too embarrassed in front of your young cousin. But you could not handle me at the full extent of my abilities.”

“Loki, please, let me have—”

“I don’t want company of any kind right now. Excuse me.” Without waiting for acknowledgement, Loki strode out of the training yard as though he were master of the castle, rather than a very unwilling guest.

It had only been a week since his arrival at the Gates of the Moon, but Loki had already gained a similar reputation to the one he had possessed in Asgard: that it was unwise to cross him, that there was something dark about him. The difference was that here, where people had not spent centuries knowing him as Thor’s younger brother, Loki had more of an appeal. He’d listened to servants gossiping about him being everything from a prince to, as the little brat  was so fond of suggesting, a god come among men.

Loki remembered a time when he himself had thought as much, a time when he and Thor  had swaggered around the nine realms like the spoilt brats they were, so drunk on their own skills that they actually believed they were gods. Of course, the temples and sacrifices from Midgard had only reinforced that arrogance in both of them. Which had gotten each of them banished in their turn.

He wanted to cry. He hadn’t done so since… when had it been? The vaults, when he’d discovered the truth? Speaking with his mother when she had granted him the regency? The battle with Thor in Heimdall’s observatory? When he was hanging over the edge of the Bifrost, pleading for some sign that he was still loved, still worthy of being an Odinson?

He was tired, there was no other word for it. Tired of standing outside, night after night in the vain hope of a portal being opened to him. Tired of Westeros. Tired of keeping up the mask of the arrogant, mysterious stranger…. But showing anything else wasn’t an option, not with Baelish breathing down his neck.

Behind him, a horse nickered, making him realize he had wandered into the stables. He let the beast nuzzle his neck, his hand resting idly on its nose. “I cannot believe I am saying this, but I even miss Sleipnir right now," he muttered. "The little monster cost me a year of my life and considerable pain, but, Norns help me, I miss him. I… I miss all of them.”

He missed the sunlight and warmth of Asgard’s summer, and the gold of the city glittering to the point of blindness. He missed his workrooms, most likely still in the disarray that he reserved specifically for them, his books on _seiðr_ scattered over every available surface, his potion ingredients the one exception to the chaos, sitting  in their neatly labeled bottles. He missed arguing with Thor over stupid, inconsequential things like racing and where to run off next.

And he missed his mother. He wanted nothing more than to be a child once more, curled up in the warm strength of her embrace, clutching at the silk of her dress as her fingers brushed against his hair and her voice calmed him.

It had been easy to accept that Odin wasn’t his true father, that Loki was nothing more than a playing piece to him.

But Frigga… No, he could not picture her feeling anything but the deepest sympathy and love for an abandoned child. Being loving was in her nature. And Thor... Thor had been as much deceived as Loki had been. He might have been arrogant, reckless, and thick headed, but Loki missed him all the same. Even faced with Loki's hatred, Thor had refused to give up on him.

_I'm not your brother. I never was._

_**Liar.** _

"Ser?" He turned his head to see Alayne and her companions in the door, all three of them coated in snow. Alayne hesitated before speaking again. "Is aught the matter, my lord?"

"Nothing that you need be concerned about," Loki replied, the cool arrogant mask slipping easily back into place. Her kindness continued to bewilder him.

"You were weeping," Mya Stone blurted rudely. "I heard it." Both noble girls gave her a severe look. “Begging your pardon, milord."

"Not granted." Loki snapped. "Now leave me be. All of you."

Mya and Randa needed no further prompting, scurrying off as quickly as they could , but Alayne took her time, lingering by the doorway. Staring at him with those river blue eyes, deeper than the stormy color of Thor's, or the gentle pools that belonged to their mother.

"Must you do that?" he asked testily, crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes at her. The flush drained from her cheeks and her lower lip began to tremble. "Never mind." He brushed past her, heading out into the snow covered world.

"Are you mad?" Alayne gawked at him.

"Possibly," he said dryly. "Goodbye."

"Loki—" Her protests were lost as the presence of the wind overpowered all.

He walked for hours, barely paying attention to his surroundings. He was untroubled by what was clearly bone-chilling cold, though he shuddered when he thought about the reason for it.

_Frost giant._

_Laufeyson_.

 _Monster_.

_Trai—_

His personal derision was cut short as he slammed head first into a stone wall. He'd been so caught up in berating himself that he hadn't noticed that his trek had led him up the mountain to the walls of the castle. How long had he been walking?

Placing a hand in the wall, he traced a set of runes out delicately and stepped through the stone. The use of his _seiðr_ felt like the one thing that continued to tie him to Asgard, that made him feel like he was still Æsir. He'd given up shapeshifting, knowing full well from his tryst with Angrboða that such a talent belonged to the Jötunar, but had kept his illusions. He'd needed them during the match with Harry, simple tricks to avoid explaining why the blade did not cut him. But the use of them made him homesick.

The corridor he had entered was windowless, and thus, pitch black. He conjured a werelight, rather than force his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Bleak was the first word that came to mind. Cold grey stone, well kept, but still unappealing. But it was mercifully empty, which suited him just fine. He stormed down the hall, fuming.

Part of him felt like burning down the Eyrie while inside. Fire was the one thing he had not considered yet in his endless contemplations of ending his life, but it made sense. Westerosi blades were not made to kill him, and he was too durable to be killed by the elements or a fall of some kind. But fire...  Somehow, it seemed a fitting end for a Jötun.

Calling himself one made his stomach turn, and a sour taste well up in his mouth. It still felt utterly wrong and yet impossibly right.

Laufey had called him the bastard son. Did that have anything to do with Loki's stature, why he had been left to die? Who -and _what_ \- had his mother been Laufey's mate, or queen, or whatever they had in Jötunheim?

More importantly, why do you give a damn? He abandoned you. He didn't see a use for you. Odin did the same when you tried to prove your worth. You're only here to be useful. No one actually gives a damn about what you want.

The ease with which Sif and the Warriors Three had turned on him only served to reinforce that belief. They had tolerated his company over the centuries for Thor's sake, and when Loki didn't do exactly what they wanted, they decided he had to be stopped. A thousand years of fighting alongside them and saving their hides, and for what? What the Hel had any of it been for?

Nothing. Nothing at all. He was stuck in Westeros with no way back to Asgard, nothing to help him, no sign of redemption.

All because he'd wanted a chance.

He turned a corner, hearing the sound of the howling wind. From the looks of the barred windows on the doors, he was in the dungeons, but why was the wind so loud? The stone should have muffled the sound greatly.

All it took was a push on the first door to see why. The Eyrie's cells had only three walls, leaving prisoners exposed to the elements. And the floors were sloped. He stepped into the cell towards the edge.

This was a fall he could see killing him. Or at least maim him to the point of immobility, left out to die on a frozen rock. He let out a small sniff at the irony of it.

One more step... He gripped the walls, and then... His foot slipped.

It was only an instant, and he caught himself before anything could happen, but that instant brought back everything he'd felt on the Bifrost.

Breathlessness.

Adrenaline.

Terror.

Desperation.

 _I don't want to die_ , he realized as he backed away. _I do not want to die_. There had to be another way home, some kind of path like the ones he had for Jötunheim, Midgard, and the other realms. If they couldn't find him, he'd find a way back on his own. He had to.

For Thor. And for Mother. The only ones who actually gave a damn.

He left the cell, his mind racing, returning to its old habits of planning and calculating. Baelish claimed he had resources, but the idea of falling into the debt of a man like Baelish did not sit well with Loki. Which meant Loki needed leverage of some kind.

Alayne would be of little help. She might have turned into a speechless, skittish little thing in his presence, but she would not betray Baelish, not when he held her future so tight in his grasp. Not unless Loki found something to use against her as well.

Either way, the Eyrie was as good a place as any to begin his search for such things. He started back the way he had came, this time journeying upwards, towards the heart of the castle. Locked doors were hardly a problem, that had been one of the first spells he had ever learned. His stomach ached at the memory of breaking into the pantries with Thor and gorging themselves on sweets. Their mother had refused to let them go to the healing rooms afterwards, saying that the stomachaches they’d given themselves would be sufficient punishment. And then his memory drifted towards anothe moment, the very first of his lessons with her.

 _“There are limits to seiðr, Loki,”_ he remembered her telling him. _“You cannot force your will upon another, at most, compulsion will be a suggestion, the choice is ultimately theirs. You cannot meddle with life and death. And you cannot turn back the hands of time.”_

_“But doesn’t Lorelei make people do what she wants?”_

_“She does. But it’s forbidden magic, it runs deeper than seiðr.”_

_“But if it can be done, why doesn’t Father just use that magic to make her stop?”_

_“Because he’s the King. He has to set an example. If he breaks the rules, no one else has a reason to follow them.”_

_You should have listened to your mother, idiot_ , he scolded himself, opening one of the more elegantly carved doors. It was a woman’s suite, decorated in varying shades of blue, most likely the chambers of Baelish’s late wife. He racked his brain, remembering everything he could about Lysa Arryn from the gossip he had heard.

A madwoman, one who had suckled her son all the way up until her death— _disgusting_ — but undeniably in love with her husband. Loki walked towards the desk, hoping that his instincts were right, and that Baelish had not been as thorough as Loki would have been in his position. His fingers ran along the wood, sending out small ripples of power until they hit a hidden compartment. Loki pulled it open, retrieving a leather bound volume with a simple lock. “Careless,” he murmured, clucking his tongue with a tight smile and sliding the book into the pocket dimension where he still held the Casket. He'd read it once he was back at the Gates.

He slipped into the adjoining chambers, Baelish's, if the mockingbird sigil on the hangings was any indication. A quick scan of the rooms with his seiðr confirmed his suspicions. Baelish had not been so lax as to leave anything that might incriminate him lying around. Loki would have to break into his chambers at the Gates in order to find those.

_You and your brother are two halves of one whole, summer and winter, night and day. Thor thinks like a warrior, Loki, he sees everything very simply, and without you, that could get him killed. You must be to him what I am to your father. You must be willing to twist things to the benefit of the realm. You will be his secret keeper, his most trusted advisor, and you will keep each other and the realm safe. Can you do that for me?_

_Yes, Mother._

He left the Eyrie with his features slightly less surly, and a little more determined. If there was magic in Westeros, he would find it, and use it to his advantage. He was the Trickster, after all. Such things were in his nature.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's commented and left kudos! I sincerely hope I am not disappointing you, especially with the long hiatuses (hiati?) in between updates. If it helps, I do have about 30+ chapters of this story planned out, which is more than I can say for A Mystery to Be Uncovered.
> 
> And I'm still updating faster than George RR Martin.


	5. Sansa I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fascinating kind of lesson is taught.

“You summoned me, Father?” Alayne stepped inside Petyr’s solar, immediately noticing the two goblets and pitcher of Arbor gold on the table. The sight of the wine unnerved her slightly, but she hid it behind the most charming smile she could muster. “Are we celebrating something?”

“It’s not for you, sweetling,” Petyr told her, smiling back at her, but it was the wrong kind of smile, a smile that suggest he had other things for her. “We’re about to have a very interesting lesson, complete with a demonstration from our Lord Silvertongue.”

 _Loki_. The knot in Alayne’s belly grew even more twisted. After the incident the day before, when he had disappeared, she should have expected this. No one knew what he was up to, and clearly, Petyr inteneded to get those details from the black haired stranger. “Am I to speak to him?”

“Of course not, my dear. It wouldn’t be proper, after all. I merely want you to obeserve.” Petyr opened the door to his study. “Slip in there, be very still and watch as much as you can. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Father.” She did as she was told, closing the door behind her and bending down to peer through the keyhole. Loki strode in, a new swagger in his gait, and a very haughty look upon his face. He seemed an entirely different man from the sullen, skulking wraith she’d come to think him over the last eight days.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Lord Baelish?" he asked silkily, taking a seat in one of the chairs.

"You gave us all quite a scare yesterday, my friend. We thought for certain you would be lost to the winds and snows."

"You call this winter?" Loki let out a light scoff. "I really don't see what all the fuss is about."

There was the click of the wine being set down, and a pause as Loki drank. "Though if this is how you express your concern, I may have to give you scares more often. This is surprisingly appealing."

"You are unfamiliar with the wines from the Reach, then?"

"This realm is not mine, why would I be familiar with the wines from the Reach?" Loki pointed out, setting down the goblet. "Though I take it you did not summon me here to discuss such things."

"Clever fellow."

"And perceptive."

"Modest of you."

"Why should I belittle myself?"

Petyr chuckled. "Very well, my perceptive friend. Tell me, what do you make of Harry the Heir?"

There was a drumming sound as Loki tapped his fingers together. "He reminds me of a former comrade. A man made for bedding, not wedding, Lord Baelish. Your pretty little daughter may find herself neglected in the marriage bed." Alayne frowned at the last part, but a strange thrill ran through her when Loki called her pretty. She wasn't certain why, it was certainly not the first time someone had called her pretty.

"It is a good match."

"That, I have not denied."

They were both quick, almost frightfully so. And it was near impossible for her to tell which man had the upper hand. Alayne leaned a little closer as Loki continued. "I will be blunt, Lord Baelish, as I dislike having people waste my time, and I do not have the patience to indulge in your infantile banter. What is the true reason you wish to speak with me?"

Alayne nearly gasped. There was being blunt, but what Loki had just said bordered on rude, and guest right was the only thing protecting him. She almost preferred the sulking man he had been the day before, this new Loki felt... Powerful. Dangerous. And oddly attractive in a way. The smooth tones of his voice and his new confidence made him seem more like a lord, perhaps even more than a lord.

"Perceptive," Petyr said again. "Very well, are you certain you will not tell me more of yourself?"

_"Ég er Loki á silfur tungu, framleiðandi af lygar, skipstjóri spellvirki. Ég fæddist á konunglega húsi Jötunheima og uppalinn í konunglega húsi Ásgarð. Ég var prinsinn og konungi einu sinni, og þú, Petyr Baelish, eru undir mér."_

The strange words spilled from Loki's lips as if they were liquid silver and music, and Alayne waited for Petyr's reply, her heart racing.

"Odd tongue. Your native one, I take it?"

"Yes," came Loki's clipped reply. "I have not spoken it for some time."

"May I ask why?"

"There has not been a need."

"Tell me, then, Loki. Will you still not consider my offer?"

"I would prefer my allegiances remain my own, Lord Baelish. You are not a man I think should be trusted."

"Do you think I am a man to make an enemy of?"

"I have made worse enemies in my time."

"You mentioned having killed your father."

"The one who sired me was not my father." Loki's tone grew even icier. "I have no father, and I suggest you do not bring up that topic again, for your own sake, my lord." Alayne heard the sound of his boots scraping against the floor as Loki stood. "I shall... Think on what you have said. Good day." He strode away and Alayne waited until she heard the door close to emerge.

"He's changed, Father," she murmured in awe, sinking into the seat Loki had vacated. "Did you see it as I heard it?"

"I did, sweetling. And I find it rather distressing." Petyr raised his own goblet to his lips, and looked at her. "Tell me, my dear, do you think his altered manner familiar? Reminiscent of anyone?"

"No one I would know, Father," Alayne replied automatically.

"Then perhaps someone Sansa Stark would know?" Petyr's eyes glittered at her. "What of that?"

"He....behaved much like a Lannister," she admitted. "As if he owned the very world. Perhaps he was in such a position before he came here."

"I would be inclined to agree with you. Certainly no mere lord. What else have we learned of him?"

"He doesn't keep the faith of the seven. He told me that. He keeps no gods. He is clever, knows how to fight, and... He is proud."

"There's also the matter of the father. What do you believe that was?"

Alayne thought about it. "Perhaps he was a highborn bastard? Or disinherited? Perhaps he usurped his father, but was exiled?"

“All possibilities, but the question is, which is the correct one?”

“I don’t know. But my question is why you would want him serving you? He doesn’t seem like someone you would be able to control.”

“That is true. But would it not be even more dangerous to have him against us, don’t you agree?” Alayne considered for a moment before nodding.

“Yes, Father.”

Petyr smiled slowly. “There’s other news too, sweetling. Mace Tyrell has persuaded the High Septon to dissolve Sansa Stark’s marriage to the Imp. They don’t want either of them attempting to reclaim the North or the West in the other’s name.”

Alayne’s eyes widened. “Truly? Oh, Father...” She leaned in to kiss his cheek in gratitude, but Petyr turned his head so that their mouths were crushed together. She could taste the wine on his lips. She pulled away, lowering her face. Petyr raised her face by the chin, his green eyes peering at her.

“You may go now. Keep an eye on him. If you discover anything else, report to me.”

“Yes, Father,” she said again, standing and leaving, just as Loki had, intent on returning to her chambers. When she reached them, she allowed herself a smile. _The marriage is dissolved_. She sank down on her bed, surprised to find a small scroll sitting on her pillow.

_I know who you are, Sansa. I would speak with you privately. Come to the sept at midnight tonight alone, and I swear to you, you will neither be harmed nor exposed._

At the bottom of the note was an odd set of scratches that resembled a signature, and the minute her eyes alighted on it, the parchment burst into oddly cold green flames, disappearing without so much as a fleck of ash. Her hands were unburnt.

She sank down on the bed, heart pounding faster than ever before. Had someone seen this? Who had left the note? Who knew her secret?

She could not concentrate the rest of the day. Her fingers twitched frantically over her needlework, and she was restless all through suppertime. Randa and Aldar both noticed, and suggested she see Maester Colemon, who, rather unhelpfully, suggested she retire early that evening.

Returning to her chambers did not help matters as she could do little else but pace. Midnight drew nearer and she changed into the darkest dress she owned and slipped out of her rooms, heading to the sept. As soon as she entered, the doors slammed shut, covering everything in darkness. It took everything in her not to scream. At the center of the room, a ghostly green light appeared.

“Well met, Sansa Stark.” An odd distorted voice emanated from the light. “Shall we agree to drop the pretense of Alayne here? You have my word, no one can hear us at the moment.”

“Your word is not very comforting,” she replied coldly, trying to keep the fear out of her voice. “Why should I trust you?”

“Oh, Sansa, don’t be difficult. I’m trusting you at the moment, am I not? I’ve revealed my _seiðr_ to you, despite the fact that you _could_ tell Baelish.”

“ _Seiðr_?” she repeated, tasting the unfamiliar word on her lips. “That’s what the light is?”

“Clearly.” The voice answered snidely as the light bounced mockingly in front of her face. “Your aunt has been exceedingly helpful to me in illuminating the little mystery you and Baelish presented. I suppose I could have drawn it out longer, but with the persistance of your darling betrothed, I was getting bored far more quickly.”

"Was this all merely sport to you then?" she demanded in disgust. "My-"

"Your secret is safe with me, I assure you. I have no reason to hold it against you, seeing as you possess nothing I want."

“Fine words given your noticable absence here.”

“Precautions had to be taken.”

“Precautions against what? My… Lord Baelish?”

“Men who think they’re clever are dangerous.”

“Lord Baelish is clever.”

“Not as clever as I am.”

“Then you’re dangerous too.”

“Extremely.”

“Then why should I trust you?” she repeated. “What do you want from me?”

“Nothing for the time being. But that may change.”

“I won’t be your puppet.”

“You’d prefer to remain Baelish’s puppet, then? His pretty little doll, the closest he’ll ever be to claiming his beloved Cat. He’ll make you a queen, oh, yes, but a queen is still just a playing piece, and he’s the one moving you. You’d do well to remember that.”

The light disappeared, leaving Sansa in the darkness, a cold feeling rising in her stomach. Alayne Stone had disappeared completely, swallowed up by the wretched nightmares that had been the life of Sansa of House Stark before finally leaving King's Landing.

Someone knew, someone with some kind of magic. She stumbled out of the sept and back to her rooms, and spent the rest of the night tossing and turning with worry. She couldn't tell anyone about this...

And yet, what if whoever it was happened to be right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation of Loki's little speech: I am Loki of the Silvertongue, maker of lies, master of mischief. I was born of the royal house of Jötunheim, and raised in the royal house of Asgard. I was prince and king once, and you, Petyr Baelish, are beneath me.


	6. Loki III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Escape from the Gates of the Moon

Loki had to set the journal down for a moment and breathe. Petyr Baelish became more despicable to him by the minute. Men who were clever, men who took any opportunity, those were men Loki could respect. But even the master of magic and mischief believed in morality of _some_ kind. Where Loki had acted in the way he had felt best for himself, Asgard had been in his thoughts as well. Baelish possessed no such affections and Loki wouldn't have put it past him to burn the realm if it suited him. 

Catelyn Tully, a prize the man had coveted and lost. Lovesick and unstable Lysa Tully a means to an end. Sansa Stark a surrogate for the lust Baelish still carried for her mother. 

Loki's mind drifted to Sigyn briefly. Sigyn, whose skin had looked as pale and soft as a lily's petals, Sigyn with her angled features that were somehow still gentle and sweet, and those pink lips and enchanting blue-green eyes. Sigyn, whom he had wanted, but she had disappeared for years and married Theoric, a captain in Odin's guard not a month after her return, and borne a son within the year.

There had been a time when Loki might have gone to any length to have had Sigyn. He had even contemplated getting Theoric out of the way and taking what he had wanted, but to cast an entire realm into chaos for the sake of satisfying his own desires seemed extreme.

And it was the oddest thing, but, the more he thought about it, the more Sigyn's face seemed to ripple and fade away.

Pushing the thought aside, he returned to the journal. _Sweet Petyr tells me Ned is in the Black Cells, and will be sent to the Wall, if Cersei gets her way, but he has promised me that horrid woman will not be getting her way._ Loki knew well enough what had happened to Ned Stark, and this suggested to him that Baelish had been the one to push that into motion. Somehow, he doubted Sansa knew.

The conversation the two of them had had an hour ago had not been particularly detailed, but Loki knew now his suspicions about Alayne had been right. Closing the journal, he hid it in the negative space again. As he turned towards his bed, a shiver went up his spine and he realized that his dagger was missing from its place on the window ledge. 

Apparently, _seiðr_ had made him lazy. He'd become far too used to his chambers back in Asgard, which sealed against outsiders automatically, it has made him forget to lock the doors here. Someone had stolen the blade. He would deal with it in the morning, he told himself as he sank onto the bed and closed his eyes. 

* * *

He was awoken by a scream and the sound of his door being broken down. Baelish and a trio of knights poured in, the warriors grabbing Loki roughly by the arms and pulling him from the bed. Loki twisted free, knocking his assailants to the ground easily.

 "What is the meaning of this?" he snarled, reaching for a dagger that wasn't there. _Damn._ Baelish gave him a very cold look but his green eyes were gleaming smugly. 

"You left this in Lord Robert's throat." Baelish produced the missing knife, coated in dark, slick blood. "For murder and the violation of guest right, you are being arrested, Loki Silvertongue."

 _No. Norns, no._ He would not allow himself to be outsmarted by a sniveling worm like Petyr Baelish. "You think to subdue me with a single warrior?"

"I think it's in your best interest to come quietly, ser."

"Oh, come now, Petyr. We are men of the mind, men of knowledge and self interest. Anything that comes from our mouths is not to be trusted." Loki chided, affecting bored sarcasm. The third knight, Ser Lothor, raised his sword, advancing on Loki, who rolled his eyes, considering his options for a moment. _Best way to find out your opponent’s plan is to make them think they’ve won._ "Very well. I have nothing to hide. I did not kill the boy."

He probably could have ripped through the iron shackles they placed around his wrists, but that would have caused an entirely different set of problems, so he allowed them to lead him down to the castle dungeons, where a new set of chains was waiting in a cell for him. They bound him so tightly that he could not move, and, once they were alone, Baelish smirked at him. "Those were forged to hold dragons. I have suspected you are more than an ordinary man, so extraordinary precautions had to be taken."

"How thoughtful of you," Loki spat, glaring up at him. "So, you've set me up to take the fall for your stepson's assassination, just as a way of tying up loose ends?"

"You've become too much of a liability, I had to do something."

"You might have asked me to leave. I would have been all too happy to oblige."

"Would you? You've been very comfortable here this far."

"I made do with the resources available."

"Well, you are welcome to make do with these resources instead." Baelish smirked as he left the cell and closed the door, leaving Loki alone in the dark.

Loki tugged at the chains, but he could barely flex his fingers in the manacles, let alone the proper muscles he would need to break out. He couldn’t even apply the proper energy for using _seiðr._

 _Forged to hold dragons._ Dragons held magic, there was probably something imbued in the metal to slow the flow of magic. Baelish probably didn’t know about Loki’s powers, but he did know that Loki was strong enough to have cracked a stone floor with his head, which was probably why he had opted for these chains. _Dragons are creatures of fire, perhaps the answer is ice— NO!_ He’d sooner die than use that form again, even to escape. It didn’t matter that he’d been born that way, it was still grotesque and monstrous and wrong.

Hours passed and he continued to stand there. Not that he really had any other choice. The most he was able to do was turn his head and shift his weight from one leg to the other. Anything else was not a possibility.

He heard the sound of footsteps approaching and the scrape of wood against stone, as the door opened, revealing Harry holding a torch in one hand and a sword in the other, Sansa at his side, wearing a dark dress and hooded cloak. “Come to take revenge for your murdered cousin?” Loki asked dryly. “Doesn’t seem very honorable.”

Sansa produced something from within her sleeve. A key. Loki struggled against the chains, straining to get to it. “Give it here.”

“I’m not letting you out yet.”

“I’m not asking you to, just let me sit for a moment, I’ve been in this position since they put me in here.”

“You can wait a few minutes more, Loki. I need answers first. Who are you, really?”

Loki mulled it over a few moments before answering. “I am Loki of Asgard. Son of Frigga, brother of Thor. There was a time when I was called the god of mischief, and I am known throughout the Nine Realms as a master of _seiðr_.”

“ _Seiðr…_ you were the one who spoke to me last night?”

“Yes.”

“How did you know?”

“Your aunt’s journal, I stole it from the Eyrie. That’s where I went the day I disappeared.”

“Do you want to escape?”

“ _Obviously._ ”

“Then you’re going to listen to what we have to say.”

Harry cleared his throat. “Al— Sansa and I talked. I’m Lord of the Vale now, and she’s a lovely girl, but I don’t want to marry her... or anyone. And I don’t like Lord Baelish.”

“Then you’ve more brains than I thought. What has this to do with me?” Loki demanded.

“The idea with the match between me and Harry is that we would then be able to use the Knights of the Vale to reclaim Winterfell for me. But neither of us trusts Baelish not to turn on Harry, so we’re making a different deal. If you take me to Winterfell, I have the Vale’s support,” Sansa explained.

“And you need me to take you because Baelish is still in the equation,” Loki surmised, smiling tightly. “Unchain my hands for a moment, and you’ll learn exactly why you shouldn’t trust him.” Harry brought the torch closer and Sansa unlocked the manacles, allowing Loki the mobility to summon the journal. “In this, Lysa wrote _everything_. The murder of her husband. The plans Baelish made for Ned Stark, all of it.” Sansa blanched at the mention of her father, thumbing through the pages.

“He could be executed for this,” she whispered. “He… he should be. I trusted him…”

“How do we know you haven’t forged it? What you did just now, that was sorcery, wasn’t it?”

“Essentially, yes, but be reasonable, Harrold,” Loki snapped. “Lysa Tully was dead before I arrived, how could I have forged this without knowing anything about her?”

“This is her hand. And I heard her admit to poisoning Jon Arryn,” Sansa agreed. “Just before he threw her out the Moon Door.”

“Then you should stay here as a witness—”

“Then she would be sent back to King’s Landing and killed,” Loki interrupted. “But we have a deal. Get these off me, and I’ll take her north, and offer my services in securing her birthright. You keep the journal, bring it to the lords declarant while Baelish is trying to hunt me and Sansa, and you can get him out of the way.”

Sansa nodded and started moving around, unlocking the chains and carefully lowering them to the ground. “I gave the guard wine with sweetsleep in it, just enough to knock them out. Maester Colemon used to do that to Robert, to help him sleep. Even so, we shouldn’t wake them.”

“I’ve bribed the guard at the postern gate to let you pass by, all the things Sansa wants to bring with her are in a saddlebag in the stable, next to the grey charger. There’s a blade there for you as well,” Harrold informed Loki as the trickster stepped out of the last shackle. “You’re headed to Heart’s Home, to get a ship north.”

“Very well.” Loki rubbed his wrists. “Then we’d best be on our way.” He twisted his hands, altering his clothes to be more appropriate for travelling, making both Harry and Sansa gawk at him again. “Oh, stop staring. I couldn’t very well go about bare-chested, where’s your sense of deceny? No, don’t answer, that was a rhetorical question. Let’s go, now. Time _is_ of the essence, is it not?”

The three of them left the dungeons, Sansa and Harry looking more than a little miffed as they navigated the corridors up to the stables and the promised charger. Sansa and Harry paused a moment as Loki put the saddlebags on the charger.

“You’ll be a great Lord, Harry,” Sansa told him. “I wish you luck...I will pray for you.”

“And I for you. Send me a raven when you reach Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.”

“Eastwatch-by-the-Sea?” Loki repeated. “Even I know that’s further north than Winterfell. Why would we be going there?”

“Because my brother Jon is Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, and Roose Bolton currently holds the North. I need more support,” Sansa answered, taking Harry’s hand as she climbed up on the horse.

“Fair enough.” Loki mounted behind her. “There’s one other thing.” He flexed his fingers, casting a glamour over Sansa to make her look more like Sif. “Better not to attract attention. If anyone asks, you are my sister.”

“I don’t understand…” Sansa-as-Sif’s brows furrowed as Harry gawked at her.

“You look lovely…. Different, but lovely.”

“Enough compliments, we’re going. Now.” Loki kicked the horse into a start, tearing out of the stables and into the night. Sansa wrapped her arms around his waist, clinging tightly as they rode. He didn’t notice until she started slumping against him. “If you were tired, you should have said something,” he scolded her.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

“We should be reaching a town soon, just keep holding on to me until we find somewhere to stop.” She nodded mutely, leaning closer to him, her teeth chattering slightly. Loki cursed internally and transferred the reins to one hand, wrapping his now free arm around her to help her keep warm until they finally passed into a village. Loki immediately sought the largest house and dismounted before helping Sansa down and knocking on the door.

An elderly looking woman opened the door and Loki smiled at her warmly. "Terribly sorry if we woke you, mistress, but my sister and I have been traveling for some time, and would be ever so grateful if you could provide us shelter for the night."

"Oh, you poor dears! Do come in!" The woman shepherded them inside, fussing with both as she did so. "I'm afraid I can't offer much, m'lord, but what's mine is yours tonight."

“You’re very kind, mistress,” Loki told her, stepping out of her range, leaving Sansa in the old crone's wizened fingers as the woman led them into a small room with a shabby looking bed.

“I’m afraid this is the best I can do—”

“It will be more than enough, mistress,” Loki assured her. “Come along, Anna, I know how weary you are.” Realization that he meant her flashing across her glamoured face, Sansa nodded, sinking down on the bed and lowering the hood of her cloak, revealing Sif’s features in full.

“Oh, you are a lovely one. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding her a good husband, young ser.”

“We shall see.” Loki smiled tightly. “A good night to you, mistress.”

“Thank you, mistress, for your hospitality,” Sansa murmured softly. “Good night.” The old woman nodded and tottered out of the room, closing the door. Unwilling to take any chances, Loki sealed it behind her, adding a charm to prevent sound from escaping before he removed the glamour, as well as the dye from Sansa’s hair.

“You look better when you are yourself in full,” he remarked softly. The compliment was given in earnest, the copper color looked lovely on her, much prettier than brown had. Sansa touched the red strands self consciously. 

"Who is Anna?" she asked. "Your wife?"

Loki nearly burst out laughing, but stopped at a chuckle. "You were wearing the face of the Lady Sif, who, I assure you, is _not_ my wife. Anna is simply the alias you will be using until we reach our destination. During which time, I might add, you should refer to me as Erik when we are in public. The guises we use may change, but the names will not."

"Oh." Sansa nodded. "Who is the Lady Sif?"

"A former comrade. And a formidable warrior."

"A lady may be a warrior in your land?" A kind of nostalgia passed over Sansa's face, both sorrowful and amused. 

"Women may join the Valkyries, but shieldmaidens outside of that order are rare."

"Arya would have loved that," Sansa whispered to herself. Loki remembered briefly from Lysa's journal that Arya was Sansa's sister, who had disappeared after their father's death. More likely than not, the girl was dead. For a moment, he felt nothing other than sympathy for Sansa. They had both lost everything, in very different ways. Perhaps that was why she had enlisted his help... "Why do you stare at me so?" Her voice broke through his thoughts, and he looked at her, slightly amused. 

"I am trying to understand what made you trust me. Particularly after you learned who I was."

“After we spoke… I started doubting Lord Baelish.” Sansa looked down at her hands, then up at him again. “And then your arrest… whatever else you may have done in your past, I knew you couldn’t have killed Robert. If you had, you would not have been so careless as to leave the knife in his throat. I don’t think you would have even remained at the Gates of the Moon if you had killed him.”

“So I am merely the lesser of two evils?”

“I don’t think you are evil. I’ve known truly evil people...You don’t seem like them.”

“Perhaps. But then, perhaps I am worse.”

“I am willing to take that chance. You told me I should consider if I wanted to be a piece or a player. This is me making that decision. I will play this game in full, no matter how much I hate it.”

Loki smiled slightly. “And the butterfly emerges fully grown,” he quipped dryly, placing his hands together in mock applause. “Brava, Sansa Stark.”

“Hush! We might be—”

“We will not be overheard, I’ve made sure of that. Get some rest, we have a long ride ahead of us in the morning.”

Sansa laid herself back along the bed, but made no move to close her eyes. “Loki?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you. For agreeing to help.”

He opened his mouth to form a comment, something snide and witty, possibly about how he hadn’t fancied letting Baelish kill him, but closed it when he saw the earnest gratitude in those blue eyes of hers. “You… you are welcome,” he said finally. “Good night.”

 


	7. Sansa II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa begins to realize just how deeply she may now be involved with Loki.

“How much longer do we have to go?” Sansa asked, practically collapsing on the bed as they entered the room they had bought at the local inn for the night. Loki ran a hand over the red hair he had conjured for himself, making the illusion dissolve in a shower of green sparks before removing Sansa’s faked brown curls and freckles.

“We should reach Heart’s Home by midday tomorrow, if we keep a good pace,” he replied. “We’d have been there sooner, but it is becoming more and more evident that I have the most stamina of you, myself, and the horse.”

“You are a god,” Sansa pointed out, the first time she’d broached the subject. Most of their journey had been in complete silence, but that silence had given her far too much opportunity to think of questions to ask.

“I was _called_ a god,” Loki corrected as he undid the odd layers of leather, metal, and silk. “That does not make me one. I can still die. It simply takes a much longer time, and a greater amount of effort.”

“If… if it does not pain you, will you tell me of yourself?” she asked, combing her fingers through her hair as she sat on the bed. Loki was bare chested now, and modesty made her avert her eyes. Loki strode over to sit on the other bed, peering at her with that strange wildfire look in his eyes.

“What would you have me tell you?”

“You mentioned a brother, and a mother, yes? Will you tell me about them?” She started braiding her hair over one shoulder, still looking down.

“If you look at me.”

“I should not—”

“Your virtue is in no danger from me, I assure you. If I had wanted you, I would have had taken you by now.”

The way he was talking made her tremble slightly. “What if I didn’t want you to take me?”

“They do not call me Silvertongue without reason. No one has ever gone into my bed unwillingly.” She looked up to see him smiling at her. Not a leer, the way Petyr would smile, but a grin that was extremely confident and cheeky. It made her tummy flutter slightly, and her cheeks flush. “So, as I said, you are in no danger from me.”

“Will you tell me about your family?” she asked again.

“It’s not as simple as you make it out to be. I was not raised by the ones to whom I am tied by blood. I was taken as an infant, raised by the royal family of the realm that had bested the land where I was born in the last Great War.” Loki spoke carefully and deliberately, as though his life depended upon the choice of his phrasing. “I spent my life calling the King of Asgard my father, believing that his wife had born me, and his son was my brother.”

“Thor,” Sansa guessed, trying to remember the name as best she could. “And the queen’s name is Frigga?”

“They are the two I count as family,” Loki confirmed.

“What of the king?” She regretted it immediately as his face darkened over, growing cold and surly “Forgive me, I didn’t realize I had overstepped.”

“He made it clear when last I saw him that I am unworthy of being considered his child. I no longer saw a point in trying to prove myself as otherwise.” She realized then what had made him arrive as he had, what had made him want to kill himself. They both were silent for a moment, and Loki was the one to break the silence. “How can you do this?”

“Do what?” she asked in confusion.

“I read the journal. I know what they did to you. How is it you’ve maintained your sanity?”

“Because I have lost everything else,” she blurted, dissolving into tears. “My sanity is the only thing I have left. My father, my brothers, my mother, my sister, even my wolf… all gone. All that time, trapped in King’s Landing, facing Joffrey’s cruelty and Cersei’s derision. They beat me, they humiliated me, they used me— everyone used me, even Margaery and the Tyrells….”

Loki reached out and took her hands gently, his skin cool and smooth against hers. “If you wish to stop, you can. I won’t force you to relive something that clearly pains you. You asked me to come with you in order to help you. I will not make you relive what has already passed.”

“Will you ask me to do the same for you?” she asked, trying to steady herself by breathing deeply.

“Sansa, my past is… infinitely more complicated. Over a thousand years of memories and while a great deal of them were pleasant, they all now have a very… dark tinge to them. I’m not entirely certain of what was real and what was just part of the façade to keep me happy and compliant.”

_Theon_ , she realized. That was what made his situation seem familiar to her. Loki had been somewhere in between what Theon had been and what Jon had been. Theon’s pride, Jon’s isolation. 

Loki reached up, brushing a tear from her cheek. “There now. I think we’ve both shed enough tears, for one night at least. Breathe again, that’s it.” His voice was soft, smooth, as if speaking to a spooked horse, trying to calm her. “In and out.”

“You’ve done this before,” she guessed.

“I’ve had a long time to learn a lot of different skills.” 

She could never forget how old he really was, given how often he was reminding her, and yet, when he was not doing so, it was very easy for her to think she was talking to someone her own age. “Oh… of course.”

“Do I frighten you?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “But I still believe you can be trusted to return me home.”

“And what will you do with me once I have done so?”

“What would you want to do?”

“Don’t answer my question with another question, Sansa. If it were up to you, what would you decide to do with me after reclaiming Winterfell?”

Sansa hesitated, thinking about it. She could almost see him as the kind of person would could make a good Hand to a king or queen… But taking up Robb’s title could only lead to trouble. And yet her father had had the help of Ser Rodrik. “I suppose I would like it if you would stay with me long enough to help me get the North back as it should be. Now tell me. If it were in my power to give you anything you might wish, what would you want?”

“The same thing you want,” he answered immediately, “to return to my home. But there is no way for me to return.”

“Perhaps there is, if the godswood at Winterfell still stands,” Sansa offered. “There might be power there you could use… I do not know how your s _eiðr_ works, but they might—”

“Very well.” Loki interrupted, nodding. “It will do. But I expect nothing from you.”

“You’re lying to me. Everyone wants something,” she blurted, and Loki chuckled.

“True enough, Sansa. But I _expect_ nothing,” he repeated. “Regardless of what I want, if I return to Asgard, it will by my own power and my own efforts. I will not require payment. You did risk quite a bit in liberating me from the cells, after all. You should sleep now, it’s late.”

“Will you do the same?”

“I have practice to do.” Loki tapped the sword. “It’s been a very long time since I trained with a sword proper, I need to readjust.”

“I see,” she murmured. “May I watch?”

“Stamina, Sansa,” he reminded her. “You need your strength, and to get that, you need rest. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re certain?”

“ _Yes_.” He pressed a cool hand on her forehead, pushing her down onto her back. Sansa trembled slightly at the gesture, and he withdrew his hand. “My apologies, that was… unnecessary. But will you please just go to sleep?” After a moment, Sansa nodded and curled up on her side, squeezing her eyes shut tight.

_She dreamt of Winterfell, as it had been before King Robert had come north, of lightly falling snow, and her entire family smiling and laughing. She dreamt she was in the godswood, dressed in soft, warm white furs, bundled up so tightly that only her face and red hair were exposed, and flakes of snow were catching in the auburn strands, as well as her dark lashes. Her cheeks were flushed the same pink as her lips._

_And then suddenly, someone was at her side, wrapping an arm around her, lips brushing against her hair, hands cupping her chin and lifting her face so that blue eyes met pale green ones. Loki smiled at her, not a mischievous or malignant smile, but a kind one, and lowered his mouth to hers, gently pressing their lips together. She tasted mint and snow on his lips—_ and then the dream shattered and she found herself back in the bed at the inn. What had changed, however, was that there was a small grey wolf pup licking her face.

“Good morning,” Loki remarked from the doorway. He was fully dressed, sword at his hip, saddlebag over his shoulder, and very little trace of the earnest expression of her dream, and Sansa flushed at the thought of it. “I hope you’ll forgive the little one, she’s not yet properly trained, obviously.”

“Where did you find her?” Sansa asked, sitting up and taking the pup in her arms as it whined and nuzzled her face.

“I took a walk and found her hiding under a tree root. From what I can gather, the mother was killed for her pelt, and I saw no other pups. She’s small enough that she can fit in the saddlebags. Do you like her?”

“Very much.” Sansa nodded, setting the pup down and rising from the bed to dress for the day. 

“Here.” An inflection of that odd tongue leaked into Loki’s voice, along with a peculiar sort of growl, and the pup jumped off the bed and ran to him, leaping up into his arms. “Good girl,” he crowed, scratching her behind her ears before he set her down. “Very good.”

“You’ve not named her?”

“She’s meant as a gift for you, it wouldn’t have been proper,” Loki answered, grabbing her cloak and wrapping it around her shoulders with a single sweep of his arms. For a moment, Sansa almost could imagine it being the emerald cloak he had been wearing when she’d first found him, and she was back in the godswood— The pup yipped again, breaking her thoughts. “Do you have a name you like?”

She considered Lady for a moment, but decided against it. She would not replace her beloved direwolf in such a way. “Winter,” she murmured. “Her name is Winter.” Apparently delighted by her new name, Winter bounded over to Sansa, tail wagging wildly as Sansa bent down to pick her up.

Loki chuckled at them, waving his hand to change her appearance and his own with the flash of green light that Sansa was beginning to think of as commonplace. Or perhaps that was the wrong word, and she was simply growing more accustomed to the strange things Loki could do.

“Well, then. Shall we?” He offered her his hand, and she took it, following him out the door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For personal reasons, this fic is currently on hiatus. The muse is just not being kind to me right now.


	8. Loki IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As they begin the final leg of their journey, Loki forces himself to confront reality.

Loki tethered the horse to a post at the harbor of Heart’s Home before helping Sansa dismount. “Hood up. Keep Winter quiet.” She nodded, doing what she was told. He’d elected to disguise her as Sigyn and had adopted Theoric’s appearance for himself. Walking side by side, they approached the harbor master and Loki reached behind his back, twisting his finger to conjure the slip of paper he would need. “My sister and I need passage to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. It’s a matter of urgent business.” He held up the newly summoned parchment, and the harbor master paled slightly.

“Just that way, milord.” He pointed over at one of the ships. “It leaves in an hour. Will there be anything else?”

“No.” Loki tossed him a gold piece carelessly before leading Sansa in the appropriate direction.

“What did you show him?” she asked softly.

“Whatever he needed to see in order to give us what we needed,” he explained. “It works the same way as the illusions. I haven’t actually altered our appearances, merely how we are perceived.” Sansa frowned, as if she still wasn’t sure what he was saying. “I’ll explain further once we’ve set out.”

They moved towards the indicated vessel, staying close to one another, and it took even less time for Loki to convince the captain than it had the harbor master. “The best quarters,” Loki said firmly, a small layer of compulsion in his voice. “Understood?” The captain nodded reluctantly.

“Of course, milord, milady.”

“This way, Anna.” Loki guided her up to the ship’s deck and led her below to an empty cabin, locking the door behind them with his seiðr. He’d learned his lesson with Baelish.

“Your explanation?” Sansa prompted. Loki held out the parchment to her.

“Tell me what it is you see here,” he told her, and she frowned as she examined it.

“But… this is a royal warrant. It’s signed by King Tommen, and there’s his seal, but—” Her fingers traced over it. “I don’t feel anything.”

“It shows you what I want you to see,” Loki explained. “My seiðr alters the way you perceive the parchment, so it looks, in this case, like the highest ranked person in this realm has given me a commission.”

“It’s impossible.”

“I would suggest eliminating that word from your vocabulary as it pertains to me,” he told her gently. “And try to get some rest.”

Winter poked her head out of the satchel and whined until Sansa pulled her free and started cuddling her. “How long will the journey be?”

“I cannot say. But we should not trust anyone, not until we reach your brother.” Loki stripped off his outer coat, laying it on the cabin’s one bed. The limited resources gave him clear understanding that he would have to improvise sleeping arrangements for himself. It was basic courtesy that Frigga had done her best to drill into both him and Thor, with fluctuating results. “You should probably stay within our quarters, for the duration of this voyage, I don't have the stamina to keep up two glamours like this for much longer.”

“How much magic do you have?” she asked curiously, scratching Winter behind the ears.“A decent amount of it, and I can draw from my own life force, if need be,” he replied. “There is… a reserve of energy within me, but it needs to be refilled, like a well. Otherwise, I will draw upon my own life force, and that could kill me.”

“Have you ever—”

“What, killed myself?” Loki asked, waggling his eyebrows at her until she giggled. “Do I look dead to you?”

“No,” she admitted. “Have you ever gotten close?”

“That’s why I’ve always had my daggers to use in combat, so that I wouldn’t have to expend all my power.”

“And it’s worked?”

“I’m alive, aren’t I?”

“You didn’t want to be,” she reminded him. Loki grimaced, picking at the skin of his palm and looking away from her. Winter hopped off of Sansa’s lap and started trying to leap up into Loki’s arms. “Winter! Come back!”

Loki bent down, picking the pup by the scruff of her neck. “ _Nóg um það, litla,_ ” he scolded, slipping into the Æsir dialect he used with Fenrir. _Enough of that, little one._ Winter let out one last whine before jumping back into Sansa’s arms.

“What is that?” Sansa tilted her head in curiosity as she began scratching Winter’s ears again. “That tongue, I’ve never heard it, and yet you speak the common tongue perfectly."

"Actually, I don't." Loki chuckled. "I've never spoken the common tongue in my life."

"But you're using it at this moment."

"You are hearing it," he corrected. "I am using the All-Speak. It is the most ancient language in all the realms. When I speak it, you hear your native tongue."

"Impossible," she breathed, then shut her mouth as Loki laughed. She was blushing, a strawberry color that should've clashed with her hair, but somehow, it flattered her. "I forgot..."

"You'll learn eventually," he promised. "With any luck, you'll become so used to it that nothing will seem strange to you anymore."

"Loki?"

"Yes, Sansa?"

"Will you tell me more of your world? You were a prince, did you have adventures? Did you have a wife?"

Loki tilted his head, looking at her thoughtfully. "Yes to the former, no to the latter. I had thoughts of it at one point, but the lady in question married another. I wasn't even given the chance to press my suit with her."

"Did you love her?"

"I wanted her. And I was used to getting what I wanted, for the most part. I was... I suppose I still am a spoiled brat," he admitted. "Thor and I both. But it showed in different ways. He became reckless, arrogant and entitled. I became jaded, conniving and desperate."

"But still a good man."

"You're kinder to me than I deserve, Sansa." Loki leaned against the door as the ship began to rock. They were casting off. "I envy you. Compassion has never been a strong suit of mine."

"You're helping me. What is that, if not compassion?"

"Self-preservation. If I'm to die, I would prefer it be on my own terms, not the terms of _ergi_ like Baelish."

"What is _ergi_?" Sansa asked, frowning. "I don't know that word. Is it a vulgar one?"

"In a way," Loki said dryly. "And one that has been applied to me many a time. To be called _ergi_ is to suggest weakness, cowardice... Effeminacy. Asgard is very much a warrior realm, strength, bravery and victory are highly praised virtues, whereas cunning and magic, tools I favor, are considered beneath a true man, so any man who uses them must be _ergi._ And there is a second application, one that has more to do with the concept of one man enjoying having another man's cock shoved up his ass." He deliberately used a graphic explanation just to see Sansa become even more flustered than before, and she delivered beautifully. "Norns, Sansa, you make this almost too easy for me."

"Does it really mean that?"

"Yes, it does. Not a pleasant name to hear, so I won't deny it gives me no small pleasure to call Baelish such. Childish, I know, but then I suppose I always have been."

"And your brother?"

"Thor is older than I, but similarly unattached. There had been speculation that he would take the Lady Sif as his wife at some point, but since then..."

_If you destroy the bridge, you'll never see her again!_

_Forgive me, Jane._

"Since then, what?" Sansa prompted.

"He fell in love," Loki answered finally. "I sabotaged his coronation, planted the idea of going to Jötunheim in his head, and he was banished for it. That was where he met her." _And where I killed him._

"Who was she? A princess?"

"A scholar," he corrected. "They only knew one another a short time, but... She changed him. He was willing to give his life to keep her safe."

"It sounds like something out of a song," Sansa murmured softly. 

"If it becomes a song, I shall not be a hero in it."

"What is Jötunheim?" she asked, changing the subject. A wise move in principle, but she could not have chosen a more uncomfortable subject, and Loki winced at it.

"The Wall and the Night’s Watch exist to keep out the greater cold, don’t they? And whatever monsters wait there?" Sansa nodded slowly. "Imagine an entire world of ice and snow, a world inhabited by… by giants that tower over you with bloody red eyes, blue skin and scars along their bodies." Sansa was already losing color at his description. "The Jötunar. Those were the monsters I grew up learning about, those were the creatures that haunted my nightmares. Asgard’s greatest enemy. Thor and I were boys when we were brought down to the weapons vault and told the story of the last great war."

"That was when you were found…" If her eyes widened any further, Loki thought they might have burst from her head. "Loki—"

"Odin found an infant in the temple, in the aftermath of Asgard's triumph. One that was too small to be any proper kind of Jötun, and yet, in every other regard, that was what the child was, down to the markings indicating him to be a son of Laufey, Jötunheim's King."

"You." It wasn’t a question. Loki couldn’t even bring himself to look at her, only give an almost imperceptible nod.

"I have no further wish to speak about this," he said firmly. "I’m going to inquire with the captain about the length of our journey. Remember what I said. Stay in here, where it’s safe."

"Loki—" He was out the door and had it closed before she could finish whatever it was she wanted to say.

She knew now. She knew and that would be the end of it, it had to be. Sansa was softness, beauty and kindness, and _mortal._ She would die within a century, yet he found himself _wanting_ her.The entire time she’d worn Sigyn’s face, the face of the woman he had wanted for so long, and all he had been able to think was that he preferred her own face.

He’d been so shocked, so disgusted, when he’d first realized that Thor had fallen so completely for a human woman, and now, here he was, doing exactly the same thing. Worse, even, Sansa was practically a _child_.

Better that she knew him to be a monster. Better that he kept her at arm’s length, before this got any further. It was even to the point where he was dreaming of it. But dreams were as far as it could go. That was something he’d become used to when he’d still believed he was Odin’s second son. And something he would have to learn all over again.


	9. Sansa III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arrival at Eastwatch, and preparations for the next journey

Sansa was beginning to wonder if it was Loki’s intent to drive her mad. She barely saw him now, and when she did, it was only at meals, where he would make the bare minimum of conversation. She wasn’t sure if he was even using their room to sleep, and if he was, he always arrived after she had fallen asleep, and left before she woke up.

"Why is he doing this?" she asked Winter, scratching her quickly growing pup behind the ears. Winter let out a little whine and curled up a little further into a ball on her mistress’s lap, making Sansa sigh. "I know you don’t know, but it’s not fair. This isn’t like him…" she stopped when she realized that this _was_ like Loki. This was like the Loki she had first met, that day at the Gates. Cold, aloof, deliberately isolating himself. "What am I meant to do?"

She was still having the dream of Winterfell, and the godswood, of Loki’s lips on hers, which only served to frustrate her further. Suddenly, she was a child again, foolishly thinking about things that clearly didn't exist.

"We’re making port," Loki interrupted her thoughts as he opened the door. "Are you ready?" She nodded, setting Winter aside to grab her cloak. Loki said something in that odd language, and the pup hopped into the waiting satchel. Sansa pulled her hood up before claiming the satchel from Loki. To her surprise, he didn't use the charm to change her appearance, merely saying instead, "keep your head down."

They disembarked without trouble, the cold feeling oddly comforting to Sansa. She was well and truly back in the North, she was where she belonged. The walk to the castle was a fairly short matter, though many people would stop and stare at Loki, who had shed his own disguise, and was walking with all the regality and confidence of a king. "Who goes there?" the sentry on the parapets yelled.

"A protector and his lady," Loki called back. "Seeking shelter, and passage to Castle Black, to speak with your Lord Commander, Jon Snow. Will you grant us entry?"

The portcullis creaked as it was raised and the great wood doors opened, allowing them inside. Three men of the Night’s Watch immediately surrounded them, swords out. Loki removed the blade from his own hip, dropping it at his feet in front of them. "Take down your hood," he told her. Reluctantly, Sansa obeyed, and the soldiers immediately faltered. A man with a widow’s peak and a sparse beard stepped forward, his close set eyes examining both of them. Loki kept close to Sansa, and she knew full well even without his sword, he could defend her better than most knights could.

"You’re the elder Stark girl," he said gruffly. "Aren’t you?"

"I am." Sansa said, gripping Loki’s hand tightly. "And this is my protector, Loki Silvertongue of Asshai."

"Asshai?" the man repeated, eyes narrowing at Loki. "You’re a sorcerer, then? From the same city as the Red Woman?"

"Do you want to see my magic?" Loki asked, smirking. "You have nothing to fear from me, so long as you aid the lady and me in her quest to Castle Black."

A thick necked fellow got a little closer. "Are you really Jon’s little sister?"

Sansa nodded. "I am, ser."

"M’name’s Grenn, milady, I’m no knight. Pyp and me, we both know the Lord Commander. We trained with him." Grenn looked at back the man who seemed to be the leader. "We’ll stand for both of them, let them have the bread and salt."

"Do I have permission to retrieve my blade?" Loki asked lightly, as if it were an ordinary thing to ask.

"Don’t use it on us."

"Do I have reason to? I take hospitality as seriously as you do," Loki replied in a very silky tone. "That’s how I was raised." As they slowly went inside the keep, Sansa didn’t once let go of Loki’s hand, not even as he retrieved his sword, not even as they took the bread and salt that guaranteed them guest right, and were introduced to the keep's commander. Sansa took a seat at one of the tables, Loki standing at her shoulder, hand on his blade.

"What has passed here in the North?" she asked. "I’ve heard only rumors and whispers."

"Stannis Baratheon and his forces went to Castle Black, his queen and daughter are there now, along with the Red Woman from _his_ city." Commander Pyke jabbed a finger at Loki. "We haven’t heard much since then."

"No matter, it’s enough," Loki said, glancing down at Sansa. "I can serve." The look in his eyes made her guess that it had something to do with his magic.

"Then our plans can go unchanged," Sansa confirmed. "We’ll ride to Castle Black."

"We could join you for protection, milady," Grenn offered. "You’re Jon’s sister, we’d serve you well."

She shook her head. "If my brother sent you here, then he must have had a reason. And I am safe with Loki."

"Begging your pardon, milady—" the big eared one, Pyp, spoke up. "But do you not fear for your honor?"

"I don’t fear him," Sansa answered bluntly. After all, she knew full well the reputation of the Night’s Watch. "But I thank you, Pyp, and you, Grenn. I will not forget this, and my brother will know of it. Now, Commander Pyke, the horses and supplies we require. May we have them?"

"What’s in it for us if we do?" Pyke asked, leering at her, and Sansa saw Loki’s hand tighten on his sword.

"The fulfillment of your sworn duty as men of the Night’s Watch," she answered, trying to remain calm, even as Pyke laughed in her face.

"And you will not violate guest right," Loki added. "If you did otherwise, I’m sure the Lord Commander would take most unkindly to such news." Pyke flinched, his complexion turning ashen.

"You'll have them," he muttered reluctantly. 

Loki didn’t stop there. As Sansa watched, he managed to talk Pyke into giving them the best chambers in the keep, and a full meal, along with warmer clothes for the journey. It was impossible not to see where he had gotten a name like Silvertongue. Every time Pyke tried to protest, or sidestep, Loki would have a counter-argument already prepared. He left no openings, no chance for negotiation, and it was astounding, even more so than when he had faced Littlefinger.

"Now, then, Grenn, Pypar, perhaps you’d care to show us to those aforementioned quarters? My lady needs her rest." After weeks at sea, Sansa was glad to hear it, and to let herself be escorted alongside Loki to a warm chamber with a sparse but still tempting bed. "Can I trust you to guard her well?" Loki asked the two men, who nodded. "Good. Then I will leave my lady in your very capable hands." He left with a bow, and Grenn and Pyp both looked confused.

"Odd sort of fellow, isn’t he?" Pyp spoke up. "Is he really from Asshai?"

"I suppose he’s strange enough that he could be," Grenn agreed.

"All that matters is that he’s my friend," Sansa interrupted. "I will thank you not to speak ill of him."

"Oh, we didn’t mean to, milady!" Pyp said hurriedly. "He just… Well, he’s an interesting sort of fellow. Talks fast and fancy and all…"

"Plenty of highborns talk fast and fancy, Pyp," Grenn scolded. "Begging your pardon, milady, we’ll leave you to rest."

"No, stay!" Sansa urged. "Tell me of Jon, please, of all that’s happened since he came here…" She settled into the bed, listening with rapt attention as they recounted all that had passed since Jon had arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the muse lives, but not for these middle bits. I desperately want to get to what I consider the good stuff, but that's still a ways off. And I'm winding down for the semester, I have multiple other obligations, but I swear, I have not forgotten you all, dear readers.


	10. Loki V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castle Black and Melisandre

"Brace yourself."

They were far enough from Eastwatch that Loki felt comfortable using what he’d spent most of the night creating. He shifted his reins to one hand and drew out the stone from his pocket, charging its newly inscribed runes with his own power. Putting as much power as he could, he tossed the stone forwards. With a roar, the stone split open, and ripped a portal through the very fabric of reality. Both the horses reared back, but Loki squeezed the flanks of his mount tightly, forcing it through the portal, and Sansa followed a moment later.

"That was incredible!" she declared, shaking snowflakes from her loose red hair. From the saddlebags, Winter yipped and squirmed. "Winter, hush!" she scolded. "Where are we?"

"A few miles south of Castle Black if I did everything properly."

"And if you didn’t?"

"We might be anywhere in the North," Loki admitted sheepishly, giving her a slightly more thorough inspection. "So wrap the furs tight, before you get frostbite." Sansa giggled, a sweet, adorable sound that warmed Loki to the very center of his being as he watched her bundle herself up tightly. Of course, that warmth immediately made him loathe and berate himself. _You are not supposed to be doing this, fool. You cannot be doing this. You are only doing this to help her get home in exchange for a way back to Asgard._

Was this simply his fate? To fall so hopelessly and deeply for women whose love he had no possible way of attaining? First Sigyn, now Sansa. He was so lost in his own self-pity that he barely heard her question. "Will you say that again?"

"I asked if something was the matter, you had a very odd expression on your face."

"No, everything is fine. Let’s go." Loki snapped the reins of his mount and started north. Sansa kept pace with him, but he was still the first to see the Wall. His eyes were better than hers, after all, but she spotted it quickly enough. How could she not, the thing was enormous, grand enough to rival any structure of Asgard, but what it reminded him of most, was Jötunheim. And it set chills down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

"I never thought I would see this," Sansa called, over the rising howl of the wind. "It’s dangerous this far up."

"Then it’s well that you have me," he called back, moving closer to her as they continued making their way towards the massive structure that only seemed to be growing. He could see lights now, and barely make out sounds of people, so they simply pressed on. He could not say how long they went, but soon enough, they were at the gates, repeating the same words from Eastwatch to gain entry. The greatest difference was that waiting for them when they entered the courtyard was not only a gathering of watchmen, but a woman in red.

"I saw you coming in the flames," she said loftily, and Loki raised an eyebrow as he helped Sansa dismount.

"I’d think coming in the flames would be a rather messy business," he joked, mimicking her tone, though it hardly suited such a coarse jest. Sansa squeaked and covered her face as the assembled men laughed. "You must be the priestess I had the privilege of hearing so much about while we were in Eastwatch. Melisandre, is it?"

"We had no word from Eastwatch of your coming," Melisandre remarked, arching a brow at him as her eyes went from him to Sansa, "so either you are a liar, or you are no mere man."

"What I am is a humble servant to my Lady Sansa Stark," Loki shot back, stepping aside to allow Sansa better presence. The red woman moved towards her, dark eyes traveling carefully over Sansa’s features.

"We have had word from His Grace, King Stannis, that Arya Stark is on her way to the Wall, to be reunited with her brother the Lord Commander."

"Arya’s alive?" Sansa gasped in disbelief, gripping Loki’s upper arm tightly. "She’s coming here?"

"But how do we know you are Sansa Stark?" one of the men yelled out and Loki’s hand went to his sword, fully ready to defend her, but something interrupted him before he got the chance to draw the blade. An enormous white wolf with blood red eyes padded up to them, nuzzling at Sansa’s hand.

"Ghost," Sansa breathed, bending down to look at him better. The wolf made a barely audible keening sound against her touch, and Loki gave a rather smug look to the man who had questioned their claims. "Where is my brother? I want to see him."

"Why should we tell you? The Starks don’t rule here."

"But they are needed in winning this war," Loki argued, looking at Melisandre pointedly. "I’ve heard enough to know the King you serve will need a Stark, a true Stark to support his claim to the Iron Throne. Why else would he be sending Arya Stark here?"

Winter chose that moment to poke her muzzle out of Sansa's bag, and yipped at the sight of Ghost, wriggling free and landing on the ground to run circles around the much larger wolf. Ghost, for his part, bent down and picked up the pup by the scruff of her neck with his great jaws. For a moment, Loki worried the albino creature might eat Sansa's new pet, but instead, he just moved slightly closer to Sansa, clearly waiting for her to take Winter back.

"If you still doubt us," Loki suggested, "then let us speak to the Lord Commander, he can confirm or deny our story. One doesn't need that much of one's health to be able to identify family."

Sansa took Winter into her arms, hugging the pup close. "Please, we've traveled all the way from the Vale."

Melisandre's eyebrow could have blended into her hairline, it was raised so high. "Take your evening meal with me, then you can see him." Loki and Sansa exchanged glances, silently considering it, then, Sansa nodded. "Good. There is space enough for the both of you to have chambers in the King's Tower, since the Queen and Princess are in Eastwatch. I will come fetch you myself within the hour. There will be someone else there to judge your claims as well." She swept away in a haughty swirl of red skirts.

"I don't particularly care for that woman," Loki announced softly once he was certain Melisandre was out of earshot. A lean, but short young man, face painted with odd blue lines drew closer.

"She's not much the helpful kind," he explained. "But she was talking about Alys."

"Alys Karstark?" Sansa asked, eyes lighting up further. The sight of it made Loki's heart soar within his chest, and it took quite a bit for him to force it back down. "Why is she here?"

"It's a long story. This way." As they followed him, Ghost trotting beside them, Loki noticed slight indents in certain parts of the snow that looked like things he had seen before.

"What manner of conflict was there?"

"Nothing she ought to hear."

"I am no child," Sansa interrupted. "And I have seen things that I ought not to have seen, heard things I ought not to have heard. I don't care if you think it will frighten me, answer his question."

"There were some of the Watch who tried to kill Jon Snow," the man answered bluntly. "He got lucky to be found so soon after the attack, that wolf may well have saved him."

"Why would they try to kill him?" Sansa demanded, her grip tightening on Winter in her arms as they entered one of the castle towers. "They're supposed to be brothers, I thought."

"Because he wasn't following his fancy crow words. Don't see how it matters much though, since we got worse to deal with."

"Worse," Loki repeated, frowning. "What kind of 'worse?'

"The end."

"That's not at all vague, is it? Not to mention we don't know what to call you."

"Sigorn of Thenn."

"Well, Sigorn of Thenn, there are a great deal of 'ends' that could be—"

"You talk fancier than most of these southerners. I don't like it," Sigorn said gruffly, and Loki snorted.

"Thank you for being truthful about it."

"Weren't much else to say. Just fact. That's how we Free Folk do things." Sansa stopped at the bottom of the stairs they had begun to climb, staring at him.

"You're a wildling?"

"There's a lot of the Free Folk here, we had to go where it was safe, and Jon Snow let us through."

"Fascinating." Loki glanced back over his shoulder, mind wandering to Melisandre and the enigma her presence created.

"Loki?" He stopped, realizing that Sansa was speaking. "This is where we'll be staying," she told him, indicating the door in front of which they were now standing."

"Ah. Well, you should go in and rest, I'll see you at supper." He looked down at the wolves. "Both of you, watch out for her," he commanded. The full grown albino wolf remained taciturn, but the pup yipped and wriggled happily as Loki bowed to Sansa and headed back down the stairs in search of the priestess.

He found her in another one of the towers, staring into a large brazier. "I expected you," she announced in a tongue he could tell was not Westerosi. "All men must die."

"As must anything else that lives," he replied with a frown. "From plant to beast to man, everything has a dawn. Just as everything will have a dusk."

"A wise response," Melisandre mused, "but not the one I expected, seeing as you seem to speak Valyrian very well."

"A man may study many tongues."

"But to speak Valyrian and have those who only know the common tongue understand you? I think it is something else. You are a stranger here."

"Not the Stranger," he said almost automatically. Melisandre laughed at his reaction.

"There is no Stranger. Nor any of the other seven idols that are kept here. There is only R'hllor."

"Never heard of the fellow."

That managed to get a twitch out of her. "What God is it that you pray to, then?"

"Do gods have gods?" he challenged lightly, but the way her eyes flashed gave him pause.

"You are not the Lord of Light."

"How do you know, Melisandre? I could be testing your faith and devotion this very moment, by taking on this form."

"You would need no test, the true Lord of Light would know my devotion is unmatched."

"Gods have no rhyme or reason. Because there are no gods," Loki corrected her in the same condescending tone he would have used to correct Thor and their comrades about a misspoken fact. "They are made when people are too afraid to admit that they have power beyond the normal. Or when people acknowledge that power far more than they should. But no one is safe from death, no matter how powerful. There are great forces. But there are no gods, of any kind."

Melisandre seized him by the wrist, and Loki could tell from the fierceness of her features that she meant to shove his hand into the fire. Something primal recoiled in him, and the icy skin of his Jötun form swept over him on pure instinct.

The priestess screamed, pulling back to cradle her now frost-bitten hand as she stared at him in a mix of terror and fascination. Sucking in a breath, Loki called back his usual shape and blocked the door. "What manner of creature are you?" she demanded, stepping further and back.

"One it would be better to have working with you than against you," he warned, slowly forming a shield of ice over the space between the door and its frame. "And if you want me working with you, it's in your best interest to give my lady anything she asks for."

Still fearful, Melisandre moved towards him, her dark eyes looking over his face, then, oddly enough, she smiled. "Ah. I see. How.... interesting."

Loki narrowed his eyes. "What is so interesting?"

"I may have looked for ice in the wrong place." She turned away from him, going to a cabinet filled with bottles and potions. "What do you know of the prince that was promised?"

"I don't put much stock in prophecies," he replied, watching her rub a salve over her blackened palm and fingers. "I look to the failures of the past, that they might not be repeated with the future. The outcome is undoubtedly set in stone, but the journey is something of a different matter."

"You don't trust me, do you? Or is it simply that you enjoy speaking in riddles?"

"Whichever makes you happier."

"Hmm." She gave him a very solemn glance. "Will our young Lady Stark be willing to swear her allegiance to Stannis—"

"She is young. She has been through more than anyone of her years ought to have gone through, and lost nearly everyone she has ever known. She just wants to go home, to live her life in peace. Her father's life was lost because he gave his support to your Stannis. I think the real question you should be asking is what Stannis can do to earn her allegiance. Because I don't see a damn thing he's done to deserve it."

"He is Azor Ahai! The one true King—"

"That is not the measure of a king!" Loki shouted. "Prophecies and symbols are not what make a king! A king is made by sacrificing his own selfishness for the good of his people, and in that respect, I do not see how Stannis is a king! And I will thank you not to pressure my lady about this matter until she is ready to discuss it herself!" He ripped open the door, shattering the ice seal, and slamming it shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, dear god, _finally_. There were a lot of blocks in my process, namely the abomination that was the fifth season of Game of Thrones. Still not really over it.
> 
> Anyway, I dearly want to finish this work, so I am officially putting out a request for a beta, mainly on the ASOIAF side of things, as I could not bring the books with me to university (they're really heavy, and I have a certain weight limit on baggage). Duties will include a) helping me with continuity and making sure the parts are all moving smoothly, b) try to keep me on more of a schedule, with updates hopefully coming at least once a month.
> 
> Just to bait you and make someone come help me with this, here's a list of people and things you can expect next time: Jon Snow, Stannis, Theon and getting closer to Winterfell.


	11. Sansa IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets, Stannis and Theon.

Sansa hesitated outside the door, wringing her hands. "Go on," Alys encouraged, touching her shoulder lightly. "He refused the chance to be the head of Stark house in favor of you. Surely that proves his loyalty."

"I haven't seen him in so long," Sansa murmured. "So much has happened..."

"He's still your family. Even if he's part of the Watch. Go on," Alys said again, pulling open the door and giving Sansa a rather aggressive shove that was vaguely reminiscent of Arya.

“San…sa…” From his stomach on the bed, Jon slowly raised his head, and for a moment, she could have been looking at a younger version of her father.

“Oh, _Jon_ ,” she choked out, rushing to his side, and sitting on the floor so he wouldn’t have to crane his neck. His hand twitched, and she took it in her own with a reassuring squeeze. “I’m so sorry…”

“What for?” He let out a rasp that might have been a laugh. “I got myself into this mess.”

“But I ruined everything in King’s Landing, if I had just listened to Father—”

“You can’t change that now,” he interrupted her. “But you can get back Winterfell, the Northmen’ll rally to you, Stannis will need that…”

“I don’t want to fight, Jon. Just to go home.” Her head slumped next to his on the pillow as she took a long heaving sigh.

“You’ve got to do one to get the other. The fellow who brought you here… He cares about keeping you safe, doesn’t he?” She sat up, flushing at the implications.

“Loki and I… have a deal. He said he’d help me make things right.”

“I don’t think that’s why he’s doing it.”

“You haven’t even met him.”

“But Ghost has… and I know Ghost… Don’t you know Lady the same way?”

Sansa pursed her lip, looking down at their clasped hands. “Lady died on the Kingsroad. Nymeria bit Joffrey, but she got away, so Cersei made Father kill Lady instead.” A tear streaked down her face in remembering her beloved direwolf. No matter how sweet Winter might be, she would never be Lady…

“‘M sorry.”

“I can’t change that now,” she pointed out, saying his own words back to him. “Jon… I won’t ask you to help me. I don’t want you to get hurt again.”

“I think you’re in very good hands with your Loki… friend.” Sansa felt her cheeks deepen even further in color as Jon gave her a little wink. “I knew it.”

“There’s nothing between us! Not like that!”

“But you want there to be?”

“Jon!”

He rasped another laugh, and said again, “I knew it.”

“You know nothing, Jon!” she insisted, folding her arms defensively. For some reason, those words made him look much sadder.

“I know more than you might think,” he mumbled.

“They’re telling me Arya is alive. That she’s on her way here…”

“Good. You’ll need each other… you’ll need…” He dropped his head, groaning slightly.

“ _You_ need rest,” she pointed out gently, rubbing at his shoulders.

“No… no… listen to me…. Don’t you let anyone say you can’t have it, Winterfell’s yours,” he insisted. “The letter… on the desk… look it over, you need to know… you need to know what he is….”

Hesitantly, she walked over to the desk and lifted it up. Bile welled up in her mouth as she read the words.

“That’s… that’s vile… If I hadn’t seen what Joffrey was capable of…” She shuddered at the memory, the paper crumpling in her grasp. “When he says his bride…”

“He means Arya.”

“Then it can’t really be her,” Sansa said grimly. “Arya would never marry someone like this, no matter what, she’d rather die.”

“Whoever it really is then, they certainly convinced everyone else. Reek… Reek is Theon. Stannis has him in custody, I think. For betraying Robb, and killing Bran and Rickon.”

“He’ll be executed.”

“I think so.” A moment of silence passed between the two of them. Then, Sansa straightened her slumped shoulders, looking at her half-brother with an almost maternal expression.

“You really ought to rest. You’re still recovering, don’t forget.”

“Stuck in a bed and bandaged up like I am?” he teased. “How could I?”

“Oh, hush and get well,” she scolded, trying to smile at him.

“Is that a command, Lady Stark?”

“I would never dream of it, Lord Commander.” She finally managed a little laugh as she stood. “I’ll come back later, you rest now.”

“Very well, _milady_.” They shared one more laugh together before she slipped out the door, and along the walkways surrounding the courtyard. To her surprise, Loki was in the training yards, working with some of Stannis’ sellswords, and brothers of the Watch, and it was impossible to tear her eyes away. She’d only ever really seen him fight once, with Harry, but it was different here, and not simply because he was wielding a sword instead of a dagger. The longer weapon didn’t seem quite as comfortable to him as the dagger had, but he was still faster and stronger than everyone else in the yard.

Hearing footsteps behind her, she turned to see Melisandre. The foreign priestess was likewise watching Loki, while cradling her heavily bandaged hand, an injury that had appeared the night before, at supper. With the way Melisandre’s eyes were following Loki, Sansa couldn’t help but wonder if he’d had some part in it. “Lady Melisandre,” she intoned, giving a quick curtsy, which the red woman returned with an incline of her head.

“Lady Stark. Might I speak a word with you in private?”

“Is there any reason you cannot have that word here?” Sansa asked dubiously, wrapping her cloak and furs a little tighter around her body. “Or do you have something to hide?”

“Do they have council meetings out in the open in King’s Landing?” Melisandre retorted dryly, and Sansa flinched at the memory.

“I prefer not to think about my time in King’s Landing, if I can help it. It was difficult enough to live it once.”

“You have my condolences.”

“I don’t want your condolences.” Sansa was surprised at her own bluntness. “No one can give me what I truly want. Nothing can bring back my parents or my brothers from death.” There was a slight twitch in Melisandre’s face, but it passed almost in the blink of an eye as Sansa turned back to the yards. “Loki,” she called down to him, and he promptly put his current opponent flat on his back and sheathed his blade with a bow.

“My lady?”

“Will you come join us?” Now it was Melisandre who flinched and Sansa felt a little wriggle of curiosity as Loki climbed up the stairs, nodding to both of them in greeting.

“How may I be of assistance?”

“You’re more skilled in negotiations than I am, yes?”

“I should think so; I have countless years’ more experience.”

“Then your help in our current discussion would be much appreciated.”

“I suppose our lovely priestess is acting in the stead of her King, then?” The way Loki spoke to Melisandre almost seemed like sneering, and the way it reminded Sansa of a Lannister was discomforting. “He is very lucky to have such a devoted… supporter.”

The priestess tucked her injured hand into the folds of her cloak, avoiding Loki’s gaze. “The Lord Commander received a raven from Roose Bolton’s bastard in Winterfell, claiming that the King was dead.” Sansa’s fists clenched as she struggled to keep herself calm as she passed Loki the letter she’d taken from Jon’s desk.

“It’s a bluff,” Loki said bluntly, as his eyes whizzed across the page. “He has no true evidence to back up such a claim, it’s all blustering and intimidation. Is anything I’ve just said inaccurate?”

“No, you’re correct, he sent no true proof. But his numbers greatly outstrip our own.”

“I thought so. Terribly predictable, no one has any imagination anymore.” Loki clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Would you like me to take us there, Sansa? It would save us a good deal of time if I were to do so. And I should be more than willing to assassinate the Boltons, should you wish. That would render the numbers issue moot.”

“No!” She was surprised at how quickly she blurted it out. “No… assassination is too good for them. I want them to see my face, I want them to see my eyes and know what they did before they’re executed properly. It’s what my family… what my father would want.”

“As you wish.” Loki nodded, turning his focus to Melisandre. “Do you have a map to where your King last was? It would be beneficial for my purposes. With it, I could make the preparations, and be ready by morning. You could join us, if you so wish.”

“Perhaps,” Melisandre answered coolly. “We shall see. The maps are in the library vaults, underground, for safekeeping.”

“That’s very helpful, thank you.” Loki tucked the letter into his sleeve before offering his arm to Sansa. “My lady, I would be most grateful if you’d honor me with your company while I work.”

“Oh… of course…” Sansa stammered, placing her hand in the crook of his elbow. “Shall we see you later this evening, Lady Melisandre?”

“I think not, Lady Stark. I have duties of my own to attend to.”

“So much the better,” Loki whispered in Sansa’s ear as they went their separate way from the priestess.

“What did you do to her?” Sansa asked, once she was certain they were out of earshot, and Loki just shrugged.

“Nothing that won’t heal, given enough time,” he promised. “And it won’t matter in the end.”

“Yes, it will! She has the ear of the man who holds my future,” Sansa argued softly. “I _need_ Stannis to defeat the Lannisters, because they will put my head on a spike next to my father’s, if they win!”

“They would not get the chance; I would never permit it. They would be statues of ice before they could get within a hundred paces of you.” She couldn’t tell if that was gallant or if it was terrifying. Perhaps it was both. They entered the vaults, Loki pulling out a chair at one of the tables for her to sit before he went off in search of the maps he needed. Sansa sat cautiously, twisting her fingers around each other.

“Loki?”

“Hmmm?” He poked his head out from the bookshelves, now clutching a few scrolled up maps as he returned. “What is it?”

“How old are you?”

“In years? Or how old would I be if I were human?” he asked lightly.

“Both, I suppose.”

“Very well, then.” He set down the maps and sat across from her, unrolling the parchment. “Regarding my literal age… it’s somewhat difficult to keep track, time is so… different for me. But I would guess it’s somewhere around one-and-ten centuries, give or take a few decades. But if I were human… I am certainly older than you… Younger than Melisandre…”

“Older than Jon?”

“Perhaps a touch… Twenty, I suppose, is as good a number as any. Seems about right.”

 _Younger than Willas Tyrell._ “But you were unmarried?”

“Sansa, I _told_ you what happened.”

“But surely there must have been other ladies… You’re a prince!”

“The second prince,” he reminded her, fingers traveling over the map. “No one was particularly interested in the younger son, the one who learned magic rather than battle, darkness to Thor’s light. A woman would stand to become Queen, if she won his heart. There was never any such chance with me.”

Sansa bit her lip, looking down at the hands she was still wringing. “I suppose…”

“Sansa.” He interrupted her, his voice surprisingly firm. “Put it out of your mind, I am not for you.”

“I… I never said…”

“And yet I see it in your eyes. Your gratitude towards me for aiding you, your fascination with the mystery I present. This is a child’s infatuation being confused for something greater.”

“I am not a child!” she protested hotly. “I am a woman flowered—”

“You _are_ a child. You are three and ten, being capable of bearing children does not change that.” He’d grown deadly quiet, his pale green eyes burning into her. “There is a word for men who make advances towards girls your age in Asgard, and the word is _dead_.”

“But we’re not _in_ Asgard!”

“That does not suddenly make it right.”

“So you’ve thought about it,” she accused. “You want me. I know what it looks like when a man wants me.”

“What I want doesn’t matter. We made a deal to help one another in returning home. That is what matters. And right now, I think it would be best if you let me do my work in peace, so I can hold up my end of the bargain.”

“I’m not leaving. Everyone knows that the Night’s Watch gains many of its recruits from the men filling the Black Cells, the worst villains in the Seven Kingdoms. I won’t be safe without someone nearby to guard me. I’m staying here.”

“Then don’t distract me.” The silence between the two of them was deafening as he worked, occasionally broken by him scratching at a stone in the palm of his hand, which would briefly glow a pale green. Though Sansa felt the green never went away, it was still there at the corner of her vision, a mix of indignation and annoyance.

This _wasn’t_ like Joffrey, or Willas, or even Harry, because Loki wasn’t like Joffrey, or Willas, or Harry. What she felt was _not_ gratitude or simple infatuation. She _knew_ Loki, cared about him, trusted him. Wasn’t that what love was supposed to be? It had been what she’d seen when her parents looked at her, or any of her siblings… or at one another. And she had never doubted that her father had loved her mother, nor that her mother returned that love. Why should it not be like that for her and Loki?

She didn’t even understand why he wanted to go back so badly, from the sound of it, he hadn’t _truly_ been happy there.

They didn’t speak to each other for the rest of the night, not even when they went to supper or retired for the evening. Sansa spent the night with only Winter for company, as Alys went back to her odd wildling husband, and Loki, presumably, went back to working on their traveling means.

She dreamt that night of something she had hoped would never return to her dreams, a nightmare of the riot in King’s Landing, the smallfolk all rushing towards her with hatred in their eyes— but it was changed now, the Hound and his white cloak replaced with Loki in green, striking all of them back before climbing up behind her on the horse, which had suddenly grown four legs more. He gave a shout, and they took off, as fast as if they were riding a comet, tearing through King’s Landing all the way back to Winterfell, where he laid her down beneath the heart tree, and…

She woke before the dream could finish, Winter licking her face and yipping. “Oh, hush and behave.” Sansa scolded, placing her wolf on the floor as she went about dressing for the day, and going to find the others, the pup running at her side.

She found Loki breaking fast in the study with Melisandre, though he barely looked up when she entered, just inclined his head and murmured, “my lady.”

“Loki,” she replied, just as coolly.

“I had hoped that we could depart as soon as you are done breaking fast, Lady Sansa,” Melisandre announced. Sansa gave her only the slightest nod to confirm, and set about retrieving food for both herself and Winter. What it was, she didn’t care, it all seemed to have no taste. Loki was still avoiding her gaze as rolled the stone in his hand idly, and she wondered if he’d had some hand in the dreams.

Once her plate was clear, all three of them stood, heading out into the courtyard, where Alys and Sigorn were waiting with three horses and Ghost. Winter bounded over to nuzzle the greater wolf, who, rather surprisingly, returned the gesture as Sansa mounted, then lifted her up to climb into the saddlebags. “Take care of Jon,” Sansa told him, and the wolf blinked twice, as if to confirm he had heard her.

“Safe travels,” Alys called as the group rode out, and Sansa looked back to wave farewell to her before turning her face forward again. She and Melisandre flanked Loki for perhaps a mile or two before he produced the stone and tossed it forward, opening a passageway. Melisandre breathed something in her own tongue, and Loki chuckled as he rode through. Sansa followed, leaving the priestess to bring up the rear.

Loki’s magic deposited them on the edge of the woods, overlooking a campsite, and beyond that…. Winterfell. _Home_.

The camp’s banners bore the sigil Sansa remembered only vaguely from the Battle of Blackwater, black stag enclosed in a flaming heart, on a field of yellow, so her trepidation only lasted a moment before dissipating as they rode into the center of the camp. Loki was first to dismount before offering her his hand. Sansa hesitated a moment before taking his hand and stepping down onto the snow, and not a moment too soon as she saw a man drawing closer to them, a man who could only be Stannis. There was some vague resemblance to Robert in his features, but with none of the fat, he just looked hard and frightening.

“I thought I told you not to come here.” It took a moment for Sansa to realize he was speaking to Melisandre.

“Your Grace, I thought it would be wise for me to accompany your guests, given who they are.” Stannis’ eyes went to Sansa and she forced herself not to tremble.

“I see the resemblance,” he announced gruffly. “Sansa Stark, I presume.”

“Your Grace.” She gave him a small but still appropriate curtsy. Stannis nodded, then his gaze went to Loki.

“Who is he?”

“Loki of Asgard. Sworn to Lady Stark.” Loki swept an overly flamboyant, almost mocking bow to the only surviving Baratheon brother. “It is an honor, Your Grace.”

“You trust him?”

“He’s not yet given me a true reason not to,” Sansa answered, hoping her voice sounded more confident than she felt. Stannis turned and started trudging back through the snow, gesturing for them to follow him to the great tent at the center of the camp. Once all four of them were inside, Stannis sat, still staring at both Sansa and Loki.

“I have never heard of Asgard.”

“Asgard has never heard of you, that does not make you any less real.” Loki said rather scathingly. “But, Your Grace, if I may be frank, I am not the thing that should be your concern. So long as you treat the lady well.”

“I spoke with my brother before coming here, Your Grace, I know what you offered him. And if you will win back Winterfell, and help restore me and my family, you will have the aid of the North, I swear it,” Sansa said, casting courtesy to the wind in her desperation.

“And who do you think is going to lead the Northmen?” Stannis asked her pointedly. “You’re no warrior, you cannot command an army.”

“Perhaps that can wait until after the battle and the castle are won,” Loki interjected. “Not that an army will be needed to help you take back Winterfell. _I_ will be enough.”

“What proof have you of that?”

The smile Loki gave Stannis was slow, mocking, and made Sansa force down the urge to shiver. “Ask your priestess what became of her hand, when the two of you have a moment alone. That is merely a fraction of what I am capable of doing.”

“Can we trust them?”

Melisandre tilted her head in an estimation of a shrug at her lord’s query. “She was recognized by many at Castle Black, including Jon Snow’s wolf, and the Lord Commander himself. And he is… interesting. A useful ally to have.”

“We will negotiate where to go after the battle once that’s done,” Stannis announced. “But there is one other thing. We have several prisoners here, and two of them are from House Greyjoy.”

Sansa’s fingers turned white as her hands clenched. “You have Theon. Jon said as much.”

“His sister tried to ransom him, but he has done too much harm for me to allow that. He will be executed.”

“What does this have to do with her?” Loki asked sharply.

“There’s a belief in the North… The man who passes the sentence should carry it out,” Sansa explained slowly.

“Prove you can serve me as your father served my brother, and we will have an accord, Lady Stark.”

Before Sansa could answer, Loki leaned forward, whispering in her ear. “Accept. And trust me.”

“Very well… Your Grace. We have an accord.” Her voice did not crack. Her hands did not tremble. And she desperately hoped Loki knew what he was doing. “I want to speak with him. I want him to know what’s to come for him.”

“Have someone bring him here,” Stannis commanded Melisandre. The priestess nodded and slipped away, leaving Sansa and Loki alone with the grim faced King, who continued to look from one of them to the other with suspicion in his eyes. “How do you think you alone will be able to overcome nearly eight thousand men?”

Loki swept his hand over the table and a glass-like box with a strange blue light surging within it appeared out of nowhere, landing with a thud. “This is my birthright. The Casket of Ancient Winters. When I wield it, it has the power to both to summon and to recall the ice and snow. An army’s size won’t matter if I can freeze them in their tracks.”

“And you think the Seven Kingdoms will accept a King who needs to resort to this kind of sorcery?”

“I think it is an impressive King who conquers by instilling fear and rules by then showing love,” Loki answered, drumming his fingers on the ridges etched onto the casket. Sansa’s mind must have been playing tricks on her, because she thought she saw his fingers turn the same color and mimic the design. “How badly do you want this, your grace?”

“This is my right. I am the one true king.”

“How dull.”

“Loki, stop it,” Sansa scolded, looking at him in disbelief at his rudeness.

“As you wish, my lady.” He gave her a flourishing little bow just as two soldiers dragged in what could only be thought of as a creature, rather than a man. His hair was pure white, his entire body gaunt and emaciated, and he was missing pieces of his skin, including one of his fingers.

“Theon,” she realized in horror. The creature shrank away from her, whimpering at the very sight of her. “Theon, look at me.” He shook his head, pulling further away. “Theon!” Still he did not answer.

Loki leaned forward, whispering something in Theon’s ear and there was a slight shimmer around the two of them as Theon kept blubbering indecipherably. One of Loki’s illusions, most likely, but why? Would Stannis notice? The shimmer disappeared, and Loki straightened. “He’s mad. I doubt he’d understand you if you told him, my lady. But I think death would be welcome to him at this point.”

“I made the same conclusion,” Stannis agreed. “Now then, Lady Sansa, we’ll see about getting you quarters for the night, and then we will speak about battle plans for tomorrow.”

Even as they left, and the soldiers took Theon away, Sansa felt an enormous weight upon her shoulders. How could she let someone’s blood, even his, stain her hands like this? How could Loki ask that of her, and then say to trust him?

“They’re alive,” he murmured in her ear. “And Stannis knows it. I’ll explain once we’re alone.”

That revelation made her stumble.

_Bran and Rickon… Alive…_


	12. Loki VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arguments, meditations, and bargains.

“How do you know?” Sansa asked him the instant they were alone in the tent Stannis had provided them, and Loki raised a finger to his lips.

“Hush, not yet.” He paced the length of the tent, sealing it against all possible spies and intruders. “Now, then. I know because Theon told me. Regardless of what you and Stannis may have seen while I was speaking to him, I…. compelled him to tell me everything he knew.”

“You forced him to confess?”

“I cannot control anyone’s actions. But I can suggest things that make them more receptive to what I want. And his mind is weak enough now that it was easy for me to convince him to cooperate. Bran and Rickon fled after he took Winterfell, the bodies hung in the yard belonged to two farmers’ boys. He’s already told Stannis this, so I have no doubt that our ‘one true king’ is out looking for them—”

“Because they’re younger and easier to control. And they’re boys.”

“Such is generally the way of things,” Loki said sympathetically. “But you still trust me, yes?”

“I’m not sure.” She folded her arms, looking up at him with a frown. “Will you tell me now why you suggested I should kill someone who was once practically kin to me?”

“Because you will not be the one to kill him.” With a twist of his wrist, their likenesses were exchanged, and he spoke with her voice. “ _I_ will. My hands have enough blood on them that a little more will make no true difference.”

“Stop it. Change us back. Now!”

“As you wish.” He withdrew both glamours without much objection; there was something extremely disconcerting about seeing her innocent and earnest mannerisms on his face, a face he’d come to loathe for the lie it held. “But think on it, Sansa. Even if Stannis finds your brothers, Bran is crippled, and Rickon a child. Neither of them could possibly do what he is asking any more than you could. And that would only pave the way for Stannis to install one of his own as a Regent, undermining the strength of _your_ House. Is that what your parents would want?”

“No….” she admitted slowly. “There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.”

“Of course there must.”

“Can _you_ not find them before he does?”

“If I had something of theirs, I could, but I don’t, so that plan is moot. And that is not the issue at hand now, there will be time to find them later.”

“How is that not the issue at hand, my brothers are alive and missing somewhere in the North!”

“It is not the issue, Sansa, because your House needs to re-establish itself as a force to be reckoned with. But you cannot do that until you’ve gained back your seat, and Stannis has said he will not help you in doing that unless he sees you execute Theon. We _must_ do this.”

“If I had not gone to the Queen, none of this would have happened,” Sansa whispered. The complete change of subject threw Loki off. “Theon’s blood will still be on my hands, whether you swing the sword, or I do.” Ah. That.

“You are not responsible for anyone’s actions other than your own. You did not force Cersei Lannister to birth her brother’s incestuous spawn, poison Jon Arryn, kill Robert Baratheon, or kill your father. Your intentions were good, those around you were not. I don’t want to have this conversation again, Sansa, you do no one but your enemies any good by letting this guilt weigh you down.”

“Then should I be callous and cold like everyone else?”

“I did not say that—”

“Oh, didn’t you?”

“Sansa, _please._ ” He was trying very hard not to lose his temper with her, and her stubbornness was making it all the more difficult. “I would never ask you to give up who you are, I—” _No. That way madness lies, that way distraction lies. Do not say it._ “I only meant that you should not let your kindness cloud your judgment, or distort your priorities. Empathy can be a weakness as much as apathy.”

“It’s all so easy for you, isn’t it?” she muttered. “None of this truly matters to you, you just want to run back to Asgard, even though you hate it—”

“What I want doesn’t matter right now, this is about what you want.” Loki interrupted, but she was just as quick to cut him off.

“And what if what I want is _you_! Seven hells, Loki, why can you not accept it!” Her shout would have been heard throughout the entire camp had he not taken precautions for exactly this kind of situation. “I have said it before and been wrong, but I am saying it now and know in my heart that it is the truth. _I love you_.”

Oh, to hear those words… He turned away, so that she would not see his face. “You would be better off saving that love for someone who would deserve it.”

“Why do you continue to insist that you can’t deserve it?”

“Because, Sansa, you are too good for me!” His fists clenched, but he refused to look back at her. Refused to let her see him like this…. cold. So cold.

“That is not true!”

“ _Stop this now_.” He hated himself for layering his voice with the compulsion, but he could not bear to hear another word. 

“I will not!”

“ ** _Sansa_** _,_ ** _I said stop.”_** He put every ounce of power into it and she ceased talking. Immediately, a wave of guilt surged through him. “Forgive me…” And before she could say anything, whether to forgive or condemn him, he left the tent, prowling away from the campgrounds and towards the forest.

Trees had been a source of solace for him for a very long time in his life. They offered a kind of shelter and barrier against the world, the quiet was a balm to the troubled wounds that so often pained his mind and soul.

He had violated her trust in trying to save her from herself. Maybe it was for the best. How long could this infatuation last after something like that…

_I have said it before and been wrong, but I am saying it now and know in my heart that it is the truth. I love you._

**_I love you_** _._ The first time he had heard those words like that. The first time he didn’t feel there was anything there to overshadow them, or make him doubt their truth. Even with Frigga and Thor, the two people who mattered most, there had been the fact that she’d kept the secret of his birth, and the resentment Loki had held for Thor since they were boys… If there was deception in what there was between him and Sansa, he was the one who had caused it by trying to keep her ignorant of the greater wrongs he had done.

Because Sansa was too good, too earnest, too beautiful to be dragged into the darkness he had created for himself. Because, Norns damn him for it, he was half-certain now that he loved her too.

It was wrong, of course. Wrong, wrong, _wrong._ She was a _child—_ A child who possessed a greater maturity than she ought to, a child with a kind of allure she should not have to him, an allure he could not resist… The porcelain skin, the clear blue eyes, the fire that seemed to dance within the strands of her hair, the subtle scent of winter roses that never seemed to leave her… All of it had captured him so thoroughly that he knew he would never forget her, even in the long centuries that would surely come when he had left Westeros, and she had died…. And she would die. There was no avoiding it.

“Will you attempt to strike me down if I disturb you?” Loki turned to see Stannis Baratheon standing before him, the stone-faced king keeping one hand on his sword. Wise man.

“That depends entirely upon what you want, _Your Grace_.”

“I have a question, regarding your relationship with Lady Stark.”

“And I have questions as to why you are being deliberately cruel to her.”

“I’m rather surprised you have not offered to spare her this difficulty.”

“How exactly would I do that, you made your terms quite clear.”

“I need someone in the North who will be loyal to me, someone who can lead the Northmen to retake the Seven Kingdoms. From what Melisandre has told me, you are fiercely loyal to Lady Stark.” Loki’s skin began to prickle as he began to read into what Stannis was implying. No. No, no, no, please, no. “If you were to marry her, _you_ would be Lord of the North, you could take those burdens from her.”

Loki’s hand lashed out before Stannis could blink, grabbing him by the throat. “I took you for a serious man, not a cruel one.”

“Release me.”

“You are not my king. You do not command me, and if you use her as means to blackmail me, you are no better than the Lannister scum you fight against.”

“Please.” The single word was a rasp, and Loki loosened his grip without letting go. Not because he’d been asked, but because he had no interest in Stannis losing consciousness as he made this threat.

“I could kill you. I could make it look like an accident. Or an assassin sent from the Boltons.Then your daughter would be the new ‘one true queen,’ and, I would have no qualms about making an arrangement with her instead. It doesn’t matter to me who sits on the throne of this realm. My bargain with Lady Stark is one of pure self interest. This for that. I get her to her home, she gets me to mine. Simple enough.”

“You would not dare.”

“You don’t know that.” Loki’s hand clenched again, slamming Stannis against the nearest tree. “But do you really want to test me?” Stannis spat out a tooth knocked loose by the force Loki had used.

"I could have you burned for that."

"You could, but you still need me. As you need Lady Sansa." Their eyes locked in a silent battle of will, green against blue, until Stannis broke. It might have been cheating that Loki very rarely needed to blink, especially in colder weather. Another Jötun advantage he hadn't understood growing up. "I will not marry someone who is a child by the standards of my home, and frankly, that this custom is acceptable among your people both worries and repulses me."

"She's been married before—"

"That does not make it right. I will not stand here arguing cultural differences with you. If your grace has nothing useful to say to me, I will take my leave of you."

"Do they allow this kind of impertinence in your land?"

"Oh, no, the king banished his heir at one point, for being impertinent and war hungry. Suffice to say, no one came out of those circumstances particularly happy."

"You were privy to this?"

"I will say again, unless you have something relevant to say to me, leave me to the solitude I sought in coming out here. Prying into my past will not put you in my good graces."

"They say mine shall be a song of ice and fire. Melisandre has supplied the fire, and she suspects you may be the ice."

"I will not serve you. And, were I you, I would not put my faith in prophecies, however comely their speaker may be. A man is made by his own actions and words, nothing more or less." Those words made something in Stannis' face change, it looked almost like... Respect? It was not a reaction Loki was expecting.

"A pity you will not be staying, then. You could have had a very promising future here in Westeros. Good day." With that, he turned on his heel and left Loki alone.

Settling into the snow, Loki took up the position Hogun had taught him, one that the Vanir used for meditation, his legs folded, fingers resting at the center of his stomach and eyes closed. And he thought.

About brothers. About family and duty, about Asgard, and how constantly he had been cast into Thor's shadow, whether or not it had actually been the thunderer's fault. And he thought about Jane Foster.

He had only glimpsed the mortal woman briefly during Thor’s exile, and to the best of his memory, there had been nothing particularly special about her. Brown hair and eyes, a face a touch too wide to be considered properly beautiful by Asgardian standards, shabbily dressed, and… abrasive. There was no other word for it. The more he thought about it, the easier it became for him to see the appeal. She had never fawned over Thor, never bowed to his will and simpered the way women in Asgard or Vanaheim did. It must have been refreshing to Thor, enticing, and… attractive. And she certainly had passion, running to Thor when the Destroyer felled him without a single care for her own safety. He could still remember what he’d seen from Hliðskjálf, when he’d foolishly assumed Thor truly was about to die.

“ _It’s over…”_

_“No, it’s not over.”_

_“I mean… you’re safe…”_

_“We’re safe.”_

_“Then… it’s over…”_

_“No… no!”_

How Jane Foster had wept for a man she barely knew… Humans were creatures that it was entirely possible could not be fully understood. Yet he could somewhat place similarities between why Jane Foster had seemed attractive to Thor and why Sansa tempted him now. Where Thor might have been drawn in by the patented disinterest presented by Jane, to Loki, Sansa treated him the way he had always yearned to be treated on Asgard, she saw in him a prince, a hero, someone worth wanting.

Were it not for the issue of her age, he almost might have considered staying, considered taking Stannis’ suggestion, and pressed his suit with Sansa… _Stop it. She is_ _a child._ He broke from meditation in favor of standing and pacing the clearing.

At the very least, he needed to go apologize to Sansa for his behavior, so he brushed off the snow from his clothes and headed back to her tent. To his surprise, Stannis was there too, sharing a meal with her, and they were deep in conversation.

“So you see, your grace, if we go by your original plan, it could be seen as you recognizing the North as a separate kingdom. Theon’s treachery goes beyond what he did here at Winterfell.”

“I suppose you have a point,” Stannis mused as he took a long drink. “But I still need a means of assuring your loyalty, Lady Stark, surely you understand this.”

“I do, your grace.” Sansa looked down at her nails briefly, then at Loki, then back to Stannis. “Perhaps we might be able to honor the wishes of my father and your brother. I know you sent someone looking for my brothers, your grace. If you are amiable to it, and your daughter is too, maybe a match could finally be arranged between House Baratheon and House Stark?”

“And if your brothers are not found, or my daughter likes neither, what then?”

“Then I will submit to whatever husband you think would be best suited to me and the North.”

“ _What_?” Loki blurted out before he could stop himself. “Haven’t you had your fill of those? Lannisters, Arryn, Hardyng, where does it end! I thought you were done submitting what should be _your_ choice to the will of others! You’re better than this!”

“I fail to see how it would be _your_ concern what I do with my life, beyond getting me home,” Sansa retorted coldly, her eyes burning a hole straight through him with the force of her glare and Loki took a step back.

“Of… of course, my lady. My apologies.” He bowed to them both, then backed out of the tent. Stannis said something, but Loki’s blood was pounding too loudly in his ears for him to hear properly.

He had to win back Winterfell in one day. And then he would see about finding Brandon and Rickon himself. He would not allow Sansa to sell herself like this, even for her family. She deserved someone who would love her— Who could love her the way Loki would never let himself admit that he did.


	13. Sansa V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle for Winterfell begins.

Sansa couldn’t sleep, though not for lack of trying. Winter was curled up next to her, the little furred body offering softness and warmth, a tiny sliver of comfort in the lonely night.

Loki had not returned to speak since she made her new bargain with Stannis, and a part of her was relieved.

She had told him she loved him, and she had meant it. His rejection had not hurt her as much as the knowledge that he was denying the fact that he, at the very least, cared for her too. Otherwise, he would not have reacted so violently to her promise, he would not have been so passionate about her deserving better than a husband chosen by someone else.

If it came to that, who was there left for her, other than Harry? Willas Tyrell? Someone from a lesser house? Willas… once she had dreamed of being his wife, and Lady of Highgarden, but now that Loki was in her life, she didn’t _want_ Willas… She wanted Loki.

Her family probably would have liked him… at least when it came to his involvement with her. There was still so much of his past she didn’t understand, so much she didn’t know, but she could almost envision a version of the world where he came before her parents, speaking in his silvery way, easily charming her mother and earning her father’s respect, she could see him showing Arya how to hold a dagger, and doing the same for Bran and Rickon, training in the yard with Robb and Jon…

It made her weep a little, and her pup responded by turning her head and licking away the tears. “Oh, you sweet thing,” Sansa sighed, hugging the wolf close. “At least _you_ can’t deny that you love me.” She curled up a little tighter under the furs, staring up into nothingness until the sun rose and the cock crowed. Swallowing her fatigue, she stood and dressed for the day, making sure to wrap her cloak and furs tight around her shoulders. Then, she braided her hair down her back and coiled it into a knot at the base of her neck with the help of a few pins. “Come, Winter.” Yipping happily, the pup hopped off the bed and followed her mistress out of the tent.

Loki and Stannis were standing in front of the King’s tent, deep in a hushed discussion of some kind. Loki was dressed in an odd set of clothes different from the ones he had been wearing when they first met, but the style was more than likely Asgardian, all black leather, silver mail, green linens and the battered gold vambraces he’d worn in his sparring match with Harry. The striking figure it gave him made Stannis look all the more unimpressive by comparison. Both of them stopped and turned to look at her, Loki giving her that little bow with his fist over his heart. “My lady.”

“Your Grace.” Sansa ignored Loki, instead curtsying to Stannis. The King nodded, and Loki’s face tightened slightly.

“I was just explaining to his majesty that it would be in his best interests to keep back, along with his forces, and I recommend you do the same, if you care to watch.”

“I can’t imagine why I wouldn’t watch. This is my home.” Sansa matched his tone, cold and sharp, like Ice before Tywin Lannister had it melted down and given to Joffrey. “I cannot fight for it, but I will see it won back, I have that right.”

“As you wish.” Loki turned away and started walking out of the campsite, stripping his leathers off his chest as he went, and Sansa blushed, averting her eyes. What was he doing? Perhaps to break the discomfort of the odd situation, Stannis cleared his throat, offering her his arm. “Perhaps, my lady, we should take his advice?”

“There is no perhaps about it, Your Grace,” she answered, taking the offered arm with all the delicacy she’d been trained to show when she was a little girl, and following the King towards the gathered army. There was a horse waiting for her, the same one she’d ridden from Castle Black, and Stannis helped her mount it before climbing astride his own.

Loki had by this point made it to the flats surrounding Winterfell, striding confidently towards the gathered Bolton forces. And then, with a brilliant flash of green, an enormous grey wolf, one big enough to block out the sun itself, appeared where he had stood a moment before, inspiring gasps from both sides.

“ _You sit in a house that is not yours, Bolton. Your men are sworn to a pretender, but House Stark survives, and_ ** _Winter Is Coming._** _”_ A chill ran up Sansa’s spine as the wolf howled. Up until that point, it had spoken with Loki’s voice, but the sound was so _real_. " _I am here for justice, bastard, come see._ " Ramsay's cruel words became a lyrical taunt as Loki used them for mocking. " _Your bride will be a widow soon, your father and yourself made your sigil incarnate, for all the world to see. Northmen, remember where your true loyalties must lie. Surrender now, and there may be mercy. Stand with traitors, and you will share their fate.”_

They were strong words, words that shook everyone who heard them to the core on both sides. Sansa’s eyes widened as many of the bannermen on the Boltons’ side dropped their spears, making a thunderous rattling of wood that became muffled as they met the snow. They scattered, leaving a reduced, but still formidable force, and Loki… he laughed. It was a chuckle that came deep from his throat and made Sansa almost quiver with… excitement? Anticipation? Fear? She could not possibly know. _“So, this is how it goes. Very well, then.”_

With that, the wolf leaned most of its weight onto its back haunches and unleashed a blast of bitter cold wind that formed an icy casing aroundthe Boltons’ forces, rooting their feet to the spot, and sending them into disarray as they tried to free themselves.

Whatever Sansa might have been feeling was unclear, but she could see on nearly every other face just how frightening Loki was becoming to them. _This is the man I love,_ she realized, gripping the reins of her horse tightly as she glanced over at Stannis. _This man who possesses powers no one understands, who makes Stannis Baratheon look like a little child in need of his mother’s comfort, and would deny his feelings for me simply because he believes I deserve better than he can offer._

Her thoughts were interrupted by a volley of arrows being nocked straight at Loki, and for a moment, Sansa felt her heart stop. But he only laughed, blowing another gale so that the arrows all bounced back the way they had come.

“It’s not natural,” Stannis said in his grim fashion.

“But it is effective, Your Grace,” she pointed out softly. “And what is unnatural to us is natural to him, just as our ways seem strange to him.”

She was not unduly concerned, not when she could so easily rationalize. No one would believe this. There had once been rumors that Robb could turn into a wolf. And that she herself had turned into some kind of winged beast after Joffrey’s poisoning. Loki would become the same soon enough, perhaps claimed by Northerners to be proof of the Old Gods’ support of House Stark. Now that she thought about it, against the white snow, he looked like the Stark banners made flesh. Knowing Loki, he’d done it for exactly that reason.

The wolf began to shrink, turning back into Loki, fully dressed and with his sword out in a manner that somehow looked both savage and gallant. Stannis drew his own blade and shouted, his voice so loud that Winter howled in unison, drowning out what was said for Sansa, but apparently his forces seemed to understand well enough, because all of them charged after Loki. She had to pull tightly on her own horse’s reins to keep it from following.

Melisandre rode up alongside her, her eyes inspecting Sansa quietly and intently. “Is this the first battle you’ve seen, Lady Stark?”

“I was at King’s Landing during the Battle of the Blackwater, but in the Red Keep for most of it. So, I suppose…” She knew it was rude not to look at the person to whom she was speaking, but she was desperately trying to keep her eyes on Loki, before he disappeared in the chaos of the fighting. “I was given a chance to escape that night, but I believed so firmly that Stannis would be victorious that I didn’t take it.”

“You will be rewarded for your faith.”

Sansa sighed, looking away from the priestess and back to the violence below them. She could not see him anymore, and her heart plummeted down to the pit of her being. She begged any gods that might exist and be listening to keep him safe, because she was powerless to do anything other than watch and wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter but for multiple reasons:  
> 1) I hate writing battle scenes, _especially_ when writing them from the perspective of someone who's watching, and this was a Sansa POV chapter.  
>  2) I wanted to get a chapter out for you guys, because I love and appreciate all of you so much. I actually broke my usual update cycle for y'all, the Mate for Mate crowd is gonna be pissed at me.  
> 3) Game of Thrones S6 has both elated and frustrated me with its finale— ask me about it in the comments and I will rant at you about what I did/didn't like, but the point is, I had a little more incentive than usual and....  
> 4) I want to get to the good stuff. Yes. It's coming.


	14. Loki VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of Winterfell, and its aftermath.

Steel on steel rang out, meshing with the sounds of battle cries and dying men to create the bloody hymn of war. It was a song Loki had never particularly cared for, but for Sansa… For Sansa, there was so very, very little he would not do.

_San-sa, San-sa, San-sa_... His heartbeat turned her name into the chant for this ballad as he sliced and wove his way through the conflict, charging for the walls surrounding Winterfell. Stannis’ sworn men and sellswords alike were beating down Bolton bannermen and ramming at the gates, but Loki had his eyes on a far greater prize. The thought of ripping Bolton and his bastard into pieces small enough for Winter to devour gave him a perverse sort of pleasure, but the thought of Sansa’s face lighting up as she reclaimed her home was even better.

He paused, both to sheathe his blade and to calculate the speed that he’d require, then charged up one of the walls, gripping the stones so tightly as he climbed upwards. He felt a few projectiles striking him, tearing the fabric of his clothes, but causing him no real harm. With one great pull, he executed a flip over the parapets and onto the walkways above the courtyard. Two Bolton bannermen attempted to strike him down, but he only laughed, slicing the ends off their spears.

Looking down at the yard below him, he spotted two rather ugly looking men in pink cloaks, matching the sigils that hung, and he smirked. “Please.”

He leapt towards the keep, plunging a knife into the nearest Bolton banner and riding it downwards with a new rush of exhilaration. He was so close now, so very close…

“Bolton!” As he landed on his feet, he pulled the knife free and flung it straight at the older of the two, nicking his face and ear before the blade embedded itself in the stone wall behind him. “Too much Northern blood has already been spilt and now as more flows, you hide in these walls like a craven. You have no claim to this seat, and as the appointed Champion of the true head of House Stark, I tell you now— surrender.”

The older of the two scoffed, and Loki didn’t miss a beat in producing the Casket to fully freeze his feet in place, leaving the worm faced boy free to move. “Care to reconsider, little bastard?” Ramsay’s eyes narrowed at the insult, and Loki’s only response was to let his smirk widen as he drew his sword. “Draw, then, bastard, if you be a man with any honor, and let us finish this.”

He didn’t give any chance for a retort, charging forward. Ramsay managed to raise his own blade in time to block, but Loki slammed into him with such force that the sword was wrenched from his grip, thudding across the snow covered yard. “Pick it up, bastard,” Loki taunted.

“I am the true born Lord of Winterfell!” Ramsay shrieked with all the authority of an infant, and Loki felt the merest flicker of his own self-loathing resurfacing for what had happened in Asgard.

“You are a bastard with no rights acting on the authority of another bastard with no right to do so!” He spun outwards, kicking Ramsay in the knees and knocking him to the ground. “You disgrace this seat with your presence! You dishonor the memory of the family you were sworn to serve! Your very breath taints the air.” Casting aside his own sword, he resorted to the use of his fists, something he had not done since he was a child, and landed a blow with every crime he leveled against the psychotic little brat. “You are a murderer. You are a rapist. You are a lying little shit, and a sadist, and a traitor. And you. _Are. A._ ** _Bastard._** _”_

No fewer than seventeen teeth were knocked from Ramsay’s jaw, leaving bloodstained craters in the snow as they fell with the force of Loki’s strikes. Another two punches had given him a blackened right eye and a broken nose. Now it was just a matter of adding a mottled spectrum of color to the sallow face, inflicting more bruises, more gashes until he heard a low croak of “ _stop…”_

“Beg me again,” Loki hissed, indulging in his own sadism for a moment and latching his hands tightly around Ramsay’s throat. “Beg for your life, bastard.”

“Enough.” It was Bolton who spoke, and Loki looked up at him, savagery in his eyes.

“Enough _what_ , Bolton?” he challenged, giving the son one final shove downwards as he stood to look the father in the eye. “If you are asking me to spare his life, then surrender. You and your spawn are already marked for death for your crimes, but call off your men now and they at least might be spared the axe. If you will not, I have no qualms about killing the both of you right here. Though it would deny me the pleasure of getting to see my lady’s face when justice is done.”

“I am the Warden of the North, appointed by—“

“Oh, do shut up.” Once more the Casket flashed to life in Loki’s hands, forming a gag of ice over Bolton’s mouth and a pair of shackles on his hand before pinning the bastard to the ground under a full sheet. “ _I_ am Winter,” Loki announced, projecting his voice forth for all to hear, and layering it with more than a little compulsion this time. Thor would have complained that such was dishonorable. Loki preferred to see it as the full use of one’s resources. “And I have come, just as the Starks warned. Lay down your weapons and end this now. This bloodshed does naught but take fathers from babes, sons from mothers and friend from friend. Does not the North remember who the real enemy is? The Lannisters who killed Eddard Stark, a good man, a man of honor, a _Northman_?”

There was a moment of silence as the last echo of his words died away. Then there was the groaning of metal and wood as the great gates were opened and the drawbridge lowered, and the sounds of a thousand footfalls as the way parted for Stannis and his company. Sansa rode a few strides behind the Baratheon king’s flank, but ahead of his priestess. It struck Loki then just how much she looked every inch a queen, her back straight and her red hair blowing in the wind like a banner, and he knelt willingly. Let the rest of the world think it was for Stannis, Sansa would know that it was she to whom Loki bowed. _Only to you, my lady._

Seeing that she was about to dismount, he rose to his feet, hurrying to her side so that he could offer her his hand in assistance. She accepted it gracefully, using him as support in her descent, at which point she moved into the middle of the yard, looking around at the walls surrounding her. Tears were shining in her sweet eyes as the weight of being home after so much time swept over her.

“I…” Her voice was soft, too soft for anyone to hear, and she paused, closing her eyes opening them to speak again. This time, the words vibrated off every stone in the keep. “I am Sansa of House Stark. My father was Lord Eddard Stark. My mother was his wife, Lady Catelyn Stark. I was born here, in Winterfell. And I am… so glad to be home again.”

It wasn't the kind of speech anyone would consider stirring or passionate, but with the snow and the sunlight simultaneously kissing her hair and cheeks, with that earnest little tremble in her voice, she radiated such relief and kindness that her words triggered a cheer from many of the soldiers. Perhaps sensing that such was a dangerous situation to be in, Sansa lowered herself into a bow before Stannis, and all grew silent as she spoke again. “The names and honor of both our Houses have been stained by the Lannisters and those who follow them.But no more. You are the rightful heir to the Iron Throne through the line of King Robert Baratheon, and I swear, Your Grace, I shall be as loyal to you as my father was to your brother. All I ask is that you see justice done. For my father, and every other Northman who fell because of the Lannisters.”

For a moment, deathly silence hung in the air, this was a moment of truth for Stannis as much as one for Sansa. “Let it never be said that Stannis of House Baratheon, First of his Name was unjust. You and yours will have your justice, Lady Stark, and the first order of that shall be that every man who fought under the banners of House Bolton, but surrendered their weapons shall be set to work restoring Winterfell as it was before.”

“I thank Your Grace.”

One of the Baratheon men stepped forward with Theon bound behind him. As the husk of a former man walked, many of the Northmen hissed and jeered,calling to him that he was a traitor, that he had deserved what he got and worse. Sansa’s kind face twitched for a moment, but she returned her attention to Stannis when the black-haired king cleared his throat. “I would ask your permission, Lady Stark, before setting foot on the sacred ground of your family’s godswood. I do not keep the old gods, but for the honor of your father, who died for my cause, I would see Northern traitors executed in the Northern fashion.”

“You have it, Your Grace, with my gratitude,” Sansa replied, turning her gaze to Loki. “Let the bastard up,” she told him quietly. “Hold him and his father as you follow us to the godswood. Please.”

“My lady’s wish is my command.” Loki nodded, obeying her commands and taking no small amount of pleasure in dragging both Boltons along like dogs. As those who had remained loyal to the Starks and Stannis’ own bannermen set about enforcing their new King’s command, a smaller contingent followed the Lady of House Stark deeper into the castle grounds, straight to the glen that formed the godswood.

Old Gods or no, Loki could feel an unmistakable power radiating through the air as he forced the Boltons to their knees alongside Theon before the great white tree at the center. He stepped back, taking his place just behind Sansa’s left side so that he could watch as Stannis drew his blade, one that gave off an odd, unnatural glow. At once, Loki knew it must have been another of Melisandre’s little parlor tricks, but it would do well enough for the task at hand.

“Roose Bolton. You have violated your oaths to your liege-lord. You have supported a false claimant to the Iron Throne. And you have aided in the violation of guest right. For your traitorous crimes against the Realm, I, Stannis of the House Baratheon, First of my Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, sentence you to die.” The blade came down and though Loki noticed Sansa’s fists clenching around her cloak, she did not flinch or look away.The head landed on the snow with a thud, blood fanning out and staining the pristine white with crimson, but Stannis took no notice as he moved to stand over Ramsay.

“Ramsay Snow. You have usurped the seat of a Great House. You have tortured and murdered prisoners and innocent women alike for your own amusement. For your crimes against the Realm, I, Stannis of the House Baratheon, First of my Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, sentence you to die.” The strike to separate head from neck was blindingly fast and this time, when the head fell, there were hushed murmurs of relief, rather than deathly silence. Clearly Ramsay would not be missed.

But any color there might have been in Sansa’s cheeks left as Stannis stood over his final prisoner. “Theon Greyjoy.” Simply saying his name triggered hisses and boos from those watching, and even those not present. Loki had never heard anyone be so hated in his lifetime. “You have committed treason in supporting the false King, Balon Greyjoy. You are guilty of invading the North, the sacking of Winterfell, and the attempted murders of both Brandon and Rickon Stark. For your crimes against the Realm, I, Stannis of the House Baratheon, First of my Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, sentence you to die.”

Sansa bit her lip, jaw setting as she did so, but she still did not look away as the final blow fell. “We should see the bodies burned, Your Grace, it’s safer that way,” she suggested quietly. “And then a feast, perhaps, to celebrate this victory?”

“Sound advice, Lady Stark, but I am not one for premature celebration. When I sit on the Iron Throne, _then_ I shall allow myself to rejoice at a victory.”

“Not a celebration then,” Sansa amended quickly. “But a remembrance. Of those who died before this day, that their sacrifices might be remembered with honor.”

A whispered chant of _The North remembers_ began to run through the crowd, and Stannis hesitated a moment before nodding. “I will grant it, my lady.”

‘Thank you, Your Grace. You honor me.”

“I shall see you this evening, I am sure you have much to be done before then, so I release you from any obligation to watch the burnings.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said again before finally returning her attention to Loki as Stannis and his retinue headed to the courtyard with the bodies. “Will you not go to help him with it, Loki?”

“I think my skills can be put to better use elsewhere, my lady Sansa,” he answered, thinking back to what he had sworn the night before. “With your permission, of course.”

For a moment, she looked at him, a frown twisting her lips and confusion in her eyes. “Very well. I hope you’re planning to use the time effectively. I still need… have need of my sworn sword.”

Loki glanced away, knowing that was _not_ what Sansa had meant when she’d started that sentence. “As you wish, my lady.” He bowed again to her and headed into the halls of the keep in search of the library. Finding Bran and Rickon was a fairly simple task, provided he could find the right tools.

It took approximately an hour for him to find the tower he needed, and another half-hour to locate a map of the Known World. Since he knew that Sansa would be coming to look for him sooner rather than later, he spent the time charting and calculating the runes he needed to organize transport to key locations Stannis might need, depending on battle plans, tucking each one into the space-between-spaces when he was done with them.

Footsteps made him look up to see Sansa and a maidservant, the latter carrying a tray of food with her. “I know you have a tendency to forget to eat when you work,” Sansa explained as the maid set the food down and curtsied before leaving the two of them alone. “What was so much more important than the feast this evening?”

“Finding your brothers.”

“You know Stannis is already doing—”

“But I can do it faster,” Loki interrupted. “And he might be able to find Rickon, but _I_ can find them both.”

“No one knows where Bran is.”

“That’s why I need you,” Loki explained, producing his blade. “The same blood runs in your veins as in theirs, with the right spell in place, I can use your blood to find them.”

Slowly, with her teeth sinking into her lip, Sansa pressed her index finger to the tip of the sword. “Then do it,” she requested, looking at him with so much sweet trust. Loki took her hand tenderly,guiding it over the map as he sent the power through both their hands and let two drops of her blood fall to the parchment. They bounced and shimmered, running to two different spots on the map. One went to the island of Skagos. “Rickon,” Sansa guessed. “Based on the rumors that Ser Davos was said to be following.”

“Yes. Which would mean…” Loki’s finger followed the second drop upwards. “Brandon is beyond the Wall.”

“Oh, gods…” Sansa gasped, hands rising to her mouth in shock. “But… how? How could he have gotten past the wall without the Night’s Watch knowing?”

“I don’t know, but what matters is that I can find him. I’ll map out the runes and set out as soon as possible—”

“And once you find them, you’re going to leave, aren’t you?”

“Sansa, we’ve talked about this,” Loki scolded her gently, setting to work with his last two rune stones as he spoke. “I do not belong in your world, and you are a child—”

“A child in your world, but not in mine! And I have not been a child since the day they took my father’s head!” she interrupted him. “Whether or not you are here, I might as well be Lady of the North now, my brothers are both too young to hold it themselves. I have survived sieges, and Joffrey torturing me, and losing every single member of my family, and I am _not_ a girl!”

“And I am still not someone who belongs in this world, Sansa. You know that.”

“But you could!” she insisted, grabbing onto his arms, forcing him to turn away from the rune stones. “You could belong, you could have a home here, with me!”

“Sansa—” But she cut him off by pulling him down and pressing her lips against his. For one moment so delicious it was almost painful, Loki let himself reciprocate, leaning into her touch, but he pulled back just as quickly. “We should not have done that.”

“You can’t tell me you didn’t like it!”

“Whether or not I liked it is completely moot.” Loki answered, deflecting even as he tried to preserve the soft, sweet taste of her mouth still lingering on his own. “I think it best that I not waste another moment in finding your brothers. I cannot say for certain when I shall return, my lady.”

“Loki, please…”

“But I will return. With your brothers. You need to focus on restoring Winterfell and working out the details of your alliance with Stannis. But do not do anything so reckless as promising your hand again,” he warned softly.

In a perfect world, he would have tenderly touched her cheek and kissed her goodbye. Instead, he merely took the last two etched rune stones and bowed to her before making his way down towards the stables.


	15. Sansa VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunions are had. Alliances are made. Demands are issued.

Sansa had never been more certain that she'd never actually been in love with Joffrey.Infatuated, certainly, enchanted to the point of blindness, but Joffrey's absence from her presence had never torn at her heart the way Loki's did now. Every so often, she would press her lips together, trying to recapture the taste that his mouth had carried.

It was one more ghost she had to endure in Winterfell. Jon and Bran and Rickon were alive, yes, but their parents and Robb were still gone, and they could not even be buried in the crypts where they belonged.

And then there was Arya. She was on her way home now, but Sansa was sure her sister would arrive a stranger. They had never liked each other, but she had still missed the dirty little girl who had run around brandishing swords and acting _unladylike_. The stories of what Ramsay Snow had done to her were almost impossible to believe. The Arya Sansa had known growing up would have sooner cut the throat of anyone who even tried such things than let them happen.

“Milady?” The maester who was replacing Luwin, the one whose name she did not yet recall, approached her, scroll in hand. “A raven arrived from the Vale, milady. From Lord Arryn.”

_Harry._ “Thank you.” She accepted the scroll, carefully unrolling it as the winds started to pick up speed.

_To Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North_

_My lords tell me that you have been returned to your family’s Seat. I am glad to hear it. I think you will be glad to hear that Petyr Baelish has been executed for murdering my cousin._

Here, Sansa paused, looking down at the parapet to the godswood, offering up her thanks that the man who had done so much harm to her family was finally gone for good.

_I hope to see you again someday._

_Harrold Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale and Warden of the East_

There was nothing else, which led her to believe that Lord Royce might have had a hand in writing it, lest the message be intercepted by Bolton or Lannister loyalists. It was smarter than she knew Harry was, Harry was a warrior, a knight, not a leader, not a _player_. That had been the role Littlefinger had meant for her to fill, while he ‘advised’ them both.

“Can you tell me where the King is?” she asked the maester, who nodded.

“I believe he is in the study of the chambers you gave him, my lady.”

“Thank you.” Sansa set off to her parents’ chambers, Winter bounding along at her heels. Her little wolf was not so little now, and Sansa could not help but wonder if perhaps she might have been whelped by Nymeria. It was probably not so, since Nymeria had disappeared in the Riverlands, but Sansa liked to imagine the connection. She liked the idea that her family might have direwolves still, besides Ghost. Did Bran and Rickon still have their wolves? Gods, she hoped so.

Stannis was in her father’s old study, poring over a stack of scrolls, but he looked up as she entered. “Lady Sansa. The rebuilding is going well?”

“And the stockpiling of grain, for when the winter grows harsher,” Sansa confirmed, curtsying to him. It was not the pretty, showy kind that she had used in King’s Landing, but a quick dip to acknowledge his rank above her. “I am grateful for the aid you’ve given in both the endeavors, your grace.”

Stannis nodded. "Is there something you needed, Lady Sansa?”

“I’ve received word from Harrold Arryn,” she answered, moving closer to pass the scroll to him. “Petyr Baelish is dead, executed for the murder of Robert Arryn and his part in the death of Jon Arryn. As well as my family.”

“You sound almost disappointed,” Stannis observed.

“I would have liked to see him executed myself,” she admitted quietly. “I will not pretend that his crimes extended far beyond the harm he did to my family, but this war— _everything_ might have been avoided, had it not been for his scheming.”

“Harrold Arryn— he _was_ Hardyng, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, your grace. He took the name Arryn for a sense of continuity, I suspect.”

“And do you think he will bend the knee to his king?”

“If you get there first and promise him battles with glory to be won,” Sansa replied. “The Vale has been kept out of every battle since the war started, the Young Falcon is one among many young men in the Vale who are still dreaming of such things.”

“That is news I am glad to hear. I have far more enemies than I do allies.”

“I will send word to Lord Arryn, if you wish, asking him to pledge the Vale to your cause.”

“Do so. And when your Loki returns, have him make more of those stones.”

Sansa winced at the suggestion that Loki was **hers** _. He would have to admit he loves me for that to be true,_ she thought bitterly. “I will implore him to do so,” she said. “My sister will be arriving soon?”

“By the day’s end,” Stannis confirmed. “When your brothers return, I will be sending for my family to join us here.”

“Of course.” Sansa nodded. “I hope Queen Selyse and Princess Shireen will feel welcome here.”

“Lord Eddard would be very proud of what you have managed, Lady Sansa.” The praise did not seem like much, considering how stern a countenance Stannis had, but Sansa felt a warm sort of ache in her heart.

“Thank you, your grace. Do you require anything else of me?"

"No, see about that raven to young Arryn. Before the Lannisters snatch him up."

"At once, your grace." Sansa curtsied again. "Winter, come." Her wolf obeyed, giving a little tip of farewell as they left Stannis and returned to Sansa's own chambers. Choosing a book to balance on her lap, Sansa sat by the fire with her writing tools and a scroll, considering her words carefully. 

_To Harrold Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale and Warden of the East_

_I am glad, my lord, to know a just sentence has been passed. I shall not be seeing you for some time, as Winterfell needs a Stark. But, if you like of it, I shall send King Stannis, that he might offer you the chance to lead the Vale to the glory which my late Aunt denied it._

_Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North_

She frowned and tossed the scroll into the fire. Let it be intercepted by spies. Anyone who thought she would ever be loyal to any Lannister was a fool of the highest order. Harry's lords might well want him to refuse, but she knew him well enough to know he’d trust her. After all, they owed each other a debt of sorts. 

_To Harrold Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale and Warden of the East_

_I am glad, my lord, to know a just sentence has been passed. I shall not be seeing you for some time, as there must always be a Stark in Winterfell, but, if you like, I shall send King Stannis Baratheon in my place, that he might offer you the chance to pledge your loyalty and lead the Vale to the glory which my late Aunt denied it._

_Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North_

It would serve her purpose well enough. She waited, letting the ink dry before affixing the direwolf seal in grey wax and making her way to the maester’s turret to send a raven. The rest of her day went on in a similarly mundane way. With Loki gone, it was almost possible for her to forget that anything extraordinary had brought her back home, and just focus on 

Almost.

She could have hardened all of herself to be as cold and impenetrable as the Wall itself and it would have done _nothing_ to protect her from the hold he now had on her. “Come, Winter,” she told her wolf, grabbing her cloak as she started making her way down to the crypts.

Stannis had told her that Moat Cailin was the last place her father’s bones had been, their journey halted by the ironborn taking the castle. Sansa prayed that they would arrive soon, hopefully after Arya did. Whatever else there might have been between the two of them, they could at least bury him together. And hopefully, someday, they would be able to do the same for their mother and Robb. Nausea curled in her stomach as she remembered the stories of what the Lannisters and Freys did to Robb’s body.

As she looked up at the granite statue of her father, she heard his voice in her head, faintly, and distorted by the fog that time put on all memories. _“When you’re old enough, I will make you a match with a high lord who’s worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong.”_ If Loki had heard that, he would have insisted he was none of those things, claiming that was just another reason he was not worthy of Sansa, hinting at that past she knew so little about. But she knew he could be those things, that to her, he _was_ them.

Slowly, she sat down on the ground in front of her father, looking up at him the way she had as a child. “Father, tell me how I get him to see himself as I see him,” she whispered, hugging Winter in her lap. “There’s _something_ there, I felt it in that kiss.”

She could not remember being kissed by anyone else, not Joffrey, not Littlefinger, not even the Hound. The only touch she could remember on her lips was that of Loki’s. She remembered the smooth feel of them, the taste of mead and mint, the slight chill he always seemed to exude. All of it was seared into her soul.

How long she stayed down there, staring at her father’s face, she didn’t know, but at some point, she fell asleep on the ground, Winter curled up beside her. She only awoke when one of the servants came looking for her in the morning.

“You had us worried sick, milady. We thought someone might’ve carried you off!” the old woman fussed as she helped Sansa to her feet. “Your sister’ll be arriving within the hour, the sentries say. Best get some breakfast with the King before Lady Arya comes.”

_Arya is almost here._ “Thank you,” she hesitated, and the old woman smiled at her kindly.

“Brynna, milady.”

“Thank you, Brynna.” Sansa clicked her fingers and Winter followed them back up to the Great Hall. Everyone already there stood as she entered, and if they noticed she was wearing the same dress from the day before, or that her hair was mussed from sleeping on the ground, none of them said a word. Even Stannis inclined his head in greeting. “Forgive my tardiness, your grace,” she said as she took her seat next to him.

“It is your own home, Lady Sansa, you are free to do as you please. I am merely glad you are still here and safe.”

Sansa nodded as one of the maids brought a plate of black bread and hard cheese. She had only just torn off a piece and put it in her mouth when she heard the sentries’ horns. The sound went straight from her ears to her heart, carrying the word _Arya_ with it. Breakfast forgotten, she rushed out of the hall and straight into the courtyard. The cold bit at her bones and the wind burned every inch of her exposed skin, but she didn’t care. All that mattered were the men coming through the gates bearing Stannis’ banners and the small, dark-haired figure at the center of them.

“S-Sansa?” she stammered, and all at once, Sansa felt her heart both rise and fall.

It wasn’t Arya. It was Jeyne Poole. 

“ _Oh,_ ” Sansa gasped, running forward to help her trembling friend dismount from the horse. “Oh, gods, what did they do to you?”

“S-Sansa,” was all Jeyne said in return as her shaking form slumped into Sansa’s arms. She looked as though she’d been dragged through all seven hells in the distance between King’s Landing and Winterfell, and in an instant, Sansa realized who must have been responsible for it. _Littlefinger._ It would have suited him perfectly to give the Boltons a fake Arya while he held the true and older Stark sister in his grasp.

“It’s alright, you’re safe now,” she promised her friend, stroking her hair gently. “No one is ever going to hurt you again, let’s get you inside.”

“B-but—”

“Ramsay is _dead_. All the Boltons are. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

“Lady Stark.” Stannis approached them and Jeyne shrank further into herself from inside Sansa’s embrace. She was afraid of him. Afraid of what would happen to her when the deception was exposed. “Welcome home.”

“Your grace, my sister isn’t well. Perhaps we could let this wait until she has had time to rest,” Sansa said, thinking quickly. “She’s been through too much to burden her at this moment.”

“My lady—”

“She is as much your hostess as I am, your grace, I hope you can respect that,” Sansa reminded him coolly as she started to guide Jeyne toward the keep. “Come, let’s get you inside.” Jeyne whimpered as she walked and Sansa bit down a horrified inquiry of what had become of her friend.

“Th-Theon,” Jeyne said, her voice going slightly up in a question. “Where is he?”

“Later,” Sansa insisted, leading her up into the solar where they’d had their lessons with Septa Mordane in what seemed like another lifetime. “No one is to enter without my permission, not even the king,” she told the guards who were standing watch.

“Yes, milady,” they said in unison. Sansa shut the door and helped Jeyne sit in the chair nearest the fire before fetching every one of the furs in the room.

“Are you warm enough?”

“You’re alive.”

“Yes, Jeyne. And I’m so sorry for everything that happened to you.” Sansa sat on the hearthstones, letting Winter rest her head in her mistress’ lap. “You don’t need to tell me anything that pains you, but I hope you’ll believe me when I tell you that I won’t let anyone else hurt you.”

“Theon said Stannis would treat me as a whore if they knew I wasn’t Arya,” Jeyne whispered quietly.

“I will speak to the King about it, but he will do no such thing if he wishes to keep me as an ally,” Sansa promised fiercely. “It is not your fault that Baelish and the Boltons forced you to do such awful things.” Jeyne flinched at the names, and Sansa cringed. “I’m sorry.”

“I never want to marry again,” Jeyne told her quietly. “If you are back in Winterfell, I will help make it what it was for us once, but after that, will you let me go?”

“Where would you go?”

“To be a septa. Or one of the Silent Sisters,” Jeyne looked away, her face in profile against the firelight. The bits of her nose that had been claimed by the frost were horribly apparent, making Sansa’s heart ache a little more.

“I think you would make a very good septa,” Sansa told her. “It will be done, as soon as we have seen Winterfell restored to its proper glory. I know of someone who can take you. I would trust him with my life.”

Jeyne looked at her curiously, and for a moment, they could have been those foolish little girls again, with their heads full of songs and dreams that wouldn’t come true. “Is it more than that?” she asked.

“I want it to be. He won’t let it be. Oh, Jeyne, I don’t know how to put it into words,” Sansa confessed, her shoulders slumping forward. “I should probably go to Stannis before his temper boils over, but I’ll leave Winter with you, if you like.” Sansa picked up her wolf, holding her out to Jeyne. “She’s very well behaved.”

Winter sniffed at the new person’s face curiously before licking Jeyne’s cheek. Slowly, Jeyne smiled, carefully taking the little wolf from Sansa. “You would trust me with her?”

“I trust her with you, too,” Sansa corrected with a smile. “She is fiercer than she looks.”

“Thank you, Sansa.”

“It is the least I can do, after all you’ve suffered, Jeyne.” She squeezed her friend’s hand once before slipping out of the chamber. After much inquiry, she found Stannis in the godswood, glowering at the heart tree. “I hope, your grace, you are not planning to burn it down as you did at Storm’s End,” she said.

“You are far more insubordinate than I had expected, Lady Stark.”

“It took a long time, but I have learned the difference between loyalty and blind obedience,” Sansa informed him coldly. “Were you expecting Cersei Lannister’s little dove?” Stannis did not reply, but he had the good sense to look chagrinned. “The North has never given up the old gods, your grace. We have recognized you as the rightful king, and you have every right to worship as you see fit, but the godswoods must remain untouched.”

“We shall discuss this after I sit the Iron Throne,” Stannis said, his frown deepening. “Is your sister well?”

“She is not my sister, but she is also not to be harmed.” Sansa placed a hand on the heart tree, willing it to give her strength against Stannis’ inevitable rage. “Her name is Jeyne Poole, her father was my father’s steward. I suspect Littlefinger gave her to the Boltons as a means to cement their claim while he kept me to unseat them when it suited him.”

“So you are taking a traitor’s whore into your home.”

“She is a victim! And she has suffered enough already. Your grace, you have far more important things to worry about than one ill-used girl. The Riverlands, for one.”

“Are you now an expert in warfare?” he asked.

“I know enough to know that the Freys are undoubtedly scrabbling to gain the full lordship, now that Baelish is dead. And that most of the lords, if not all of them, had bent the knee to Tommen when I fled the Vale.”

“Then your advice would be what?”

“To find my uncle Edmure and remind him of his birthright.”

“I have heard that Lord Tully has surrendered and is quite comfortably in Casterly Rock.”

“No matter how gilded or comfortable, a cage is a cage, your grace, and a trout does not fare any better in one than a wolf,” Sansa argued. “And you _will_ need the Riverlands, your grace. They have precious resources that will be desperately needed as winter makes its way south. As important as your reclaiming the Iron Throne is, your grace, if the people do not survive the winter, there will be no one left for you to rule.”

Stannis tilted his head, looking her over. “It is a pity Robert never had any trueborn sons,” he said finally. “You would make a remarkable queen.”

Some small instinct Sansa had thought she would never need again began to prickle under her skin, and she took a step back. “It is a pity Cersei Lannister did not fulfill her duties as a wife,” she admitted. “But perhaps just as much of a pity that King Robert did not realize he was being made a cuckold by his wife.”

“You can speak plainly, my brother was a fool.”

“We are all fools in some way or another,” she countered quietly, dipping into a curtsy. “I have other duties I must attend to, your grace. Was there anything else you needed?”

“I wish to formalize the treaty between our houses before I start the campaign south. After supper tonight.”

“Of course. I shall meet you in the study of your cham—” Before she could finish her sentences, there was the loud howl of a wolf and the shriek of a woman. “Gods be good,” she whispered, picking up her skirts as she rushed from the godswood to the yard.

It was a bizarre sort of scene she came upon. A giant black direwolf stood in the center of the yard, snapping at anyone who came near. Sitting atop his back was a boy with a mop of wild red curls, and at his side, an older woman with hard, cold features and jagged brown hair. Loki stood in front of the wolf, hand outstretched. “ _Hafa kyrt um sik_ ,” he said.“ _Nādhir_.”

“Mother?” the boy asked, his voice trembling. Sansa gasped, slowly removing her gloves to reach out to her brother.

“No, Rickon. Sansa. Don’t you remember?”

“My lady, I don’t know that you should get so close. It took a long time for me to convince them,” Loki warned.

“I trust my brother,” Sansa said dismissively, closing the distance and letting the wolf sniff her knuckles. For one terrifying moment, she worried the wolf would bite them off, but instead, it licked them.

“Shaggy likes you,” Rickon observed.

“We’re both wolves, little brother,” Sansa reminded him gently. “And we’re home now.” She looked at Loki. “Where is Bran?”

Her dark-haired knight had the decency to look stricken as he reached inside his tunic to produce a strip of what looked like bark from a weirwood. “I tried to convince him to return, but he would not come.”

“Convenient,” Stannis remarked scathingly as he approached them. “And what is that you have there?”

Loki held it out calmly, allowing Stannis to take it from him. “What little I was able to get from him.”

“ _I, Brandon Stark, son of Lord Eddard Stark, hereby,_ ” Stannis paused, his frown deepening.

“Hereby what?” Sansa asked, drawing closer to see for herself. The words were shaky, it looked like something a child would have written. Then she remembered Bran was still just ten. Stannis had stopped because the words ‘renounce my claim’ had been crossed out, like a mistake made at lessons, and replaced with a new set.

“ _Hereby set to the North the laws of inheritance as practiced in Dorne,”_ she read aloud, looking at Loki nervously. “Did you make him change this?”

“I would have to know what that means first,” Loki replied calmly. “Perhaps you would care to enlighten me?”

“In Dorne, the eldest child inherits, regardless of their sex,” Stannis explained,his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “It would seem, Lady Stark, that you are blessed with brothers eager to make you Lady of Winterfell, regardless of their birth.”

“The lords may not like this,” Sansa fretted, deliberately ignoring the implied insult and biting her lip as her gaze went to Rickon. “They will want you to be Lord of Winterfell.”

“Why?” Rickon asked, and his wolf growled.

“Because that’s how it’s done,” Sansa chided him.

“Why can’t Father do it? Or Robb?”demanded the boy. Sansa’s face paled as she realized he didn’t remember. He had been too young. He didn’t understand that their parents were gone, that Robb and Arya were gone.

“Perhaps now is a good time for us to discuss the treaty between our houses after all,” Sansa offered. “If nothing else, then I can act as my brother’s regent.”

“The boy will come?”

“If you like, your grace.”

“I do like, Lady Stark.”

“Come, Rickon.” Her brother shook his head, folding his arms. “Rickon, _please_.”

“Off Shaggy now,” the woman spoke bluntly. “You listen to your sister. She might talk pretty, but she talks smart too.”

“But, Osha—” 

“Hush now.” Osha grabbed Rickon by the scruff of his neck, pulling him from Shaggy’s back and setting him on the ground. “And go with them.”

“It’s alright, Rickon,” Sansa promised, holding out her bared hand to her brother. For a moment that seemed to last forever, Rickon stared at it. Then he wrapped his fingers around her middle three and let her lead him and Stannis up to the study of her own chambers. She suspected that using the ones that had been their parents’ would only upset her brother.

“Fetch the maester,” she told the guard standing by her door. “We have need of a scribe.”

“I can serve,” Loki offered, alerting them to his presence.

“No,” Sansa said before Stannis had the chance. “No, a more neutral party is required for this task.”

“My lady—”

“It is my decision, Loki. You are free to offer whatever counsel you like, but I am not required to heed it.” Sansa moved a chair for Rickon, taking the cushion from her own seat to stack it so that he could be a little higher when he sat. “Up we go now.”

“I’m not a baby,” Rickon muttered. “And I want to go back to Shaggy.”

“You can play with your dire when we’re done, this is important. Now, sit.” Sansa did her best to sound firm the way their mother would have. Rickon scowled but obeyed. Stannis took a seat opposite them as the maester arrived with sheets of parchment. Sansa pushed the quill and ink bottle she used forward for his use.

“Do I have the fealty of House Stark?’” Stannis asked pointedly.

“We will swear allegiance and allow any Northmen who wish to join you to go with our blessing,” Sansa replied. “But I will not call the banners. We are still recovering from the war against the Lannisters.”

“I need more than that.”

“We will summon the lords if you wish, your grace, but winter is coming and the north must prepare,” Sansa insisted. “We discussed this in the godswood.”

“Will you allow me to offer an amendment?” Loki suggested from his corner of the chamber. “Even if the North cannot give you the numbers you require, _your grace,_ it can offer something no other kingdom can. _Me._ ” Sansa’s heart plummeted down into the crypts below. It was happening. He was abandoning her. Loki, cruelly unaware of what he was doing to her, continued speaking. “Give me a map and a stone and I could have you in King’s Landing before the sun sets. Or anywhere else you so desire. You would be able to ambush any fortress without the risk of them learning about your coming.”

“I take it that means your bargain with Lady Stark is complete?”

“No.” Sansa blinked, not daring to hope as she listened. “I do not consider my obligation fulfilled until her home is truly secure. If the Lannisters remain in power, that is not so.”

“What say you to his offer, Lady Stark?” Stannis prompted, and Sansa had to hide a wince. “Will you permit it?”

“As I said, the Northmen are free to follow you south if they wish,” she answered courteously. “Loki is no exception.”

“I want him to stay,” Rickon protested. “He’s funny.”

“I will return when the war is won,” Loki told him, bending down so they were eye to eye. “You have my word.”

Rickon scowled and Sansa deliberately avoided looking directly at Loki, choosing instead to focus on Stannis and the maester. “We will gladly host Queen Selyse and Princess Shireen until you feel it is safe to bring them south, along with a suitable household. During that time, we can also see if the Princess likes well of my brother enough to arrange a match, given their tender ages.”

They spent another two hours discussing terms, everything from armor to grain to spies. Rickon kept trying to squirm and doze off, only to be pinched by Loki. Finally, they had a treaty solidified. “See about making the copy. We shall reconvene to sign both after supper,” Stannis told the maester.

“Rickon, go with with the king to the Great Hall. I shall join you in a moment.” Sansa told her brother. Rickon narrowed his eyes but did not object. After Stannis and Rickon had departed, the maester gathered up his things and left as well. Loki took a step back, towards the window, widening the distance between the two of them.

“Please, don’t try to—”

“You are free to go south with Stannis,” she interrupted him. “But I forbid you to return to Winterfell when the Iron Throne is won. Unless you intend to stay.”

“ _What_?” He gawked at her in apparent disbelief.

“I will not put my heart through the torment of you being here and taunting me,” she said bluntly.“I don’t have the strength for it. I love you, and it kills me to be denied.”

“You shouldn’t say such things,” Loki protested. “I am not worth your grief.”

“You don’t get to decide what you’re worth to me!” Sansa protested, tears beginning to form in her eyes. “Gods, Loki, why must you do this to both of us? How can you be so cruel?”

“Are you not being just as cruel?” he argued. “Sansa, _I_ don’t have the strength to imagine a life where I outlive you for centuries. Your heart can heal far more easily than mine. Given enough time, you _will_ find someone better to love.”

“Then we will say farewell when you depart with Stannis and his army. For good.”

“That was not the deal we made.”

“It is now. Go to Harry for help, or the Citadel in Oldtown, go to Castle Black for all I care, but if you will not love me, then I don’t ever want to see you again!”

“Sansa, please. You are not thinking clearly—”

“We’re done here, Loki.”

“I don’t think—”

“ _We’re done._ ” For some reason, the repeated phrase rendered him speechless. Looking away from his eyes before she could see the hurt in them, Sansa turned on her heel and followed after her king and her brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it took me 11 months to get the next chapter out. I'm terrible, I know, but that's what season 7 has done to me (though I will admit to getting quite a bit of satisfaction out of one specific moment in the finale).  
> Admittedly, I feel the need to try and address ALL the characters, which is EXHAUSTING.


	16. Interlude: Tyrion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Across the Narrow Sea, a different bargain is struck.

There came a rumble as the great doors of the prison opened, and voices speaking in High Valyrian echoed downwards. He didn’t move. He didn’t expect anything anymore.

Footsteps began to draw nearer to his cell, coming to a stop perhaps five paces from the door. “I told you if I saw you again, I would kill you.”

“I know, your grace.” That was Mormont’s voice. So, Daenerys had finally returned. There came the sound of a stopper being pulled.

“Drink.”

“Your grace— Khaleesi—”

“ _I command you._ ” Daenerys cut him off coldly and sharply. “ _Drink.”_ There was a moment of heavy silence and then, the silver queen took another five steps, coming to a stop in front of him. “You do not look the way I thought you would,” she remarked. “Tyrion Lannister.”

“I am sorry to disappoint you, your grace,” he replied, taking in as much of her as he could in the dim light of the dungeons. Even with her face half in shadows, she did her name justice, coldly resplendent and regal, the faintest hint of fire in her violet eyes. A crown of three dragons glittered in her silver hair, and he could see the curves of her body beneath her gown in the torchlight. “Is it enough to dissuade you from executing me?”

“Ser Barristan said you enjoyed being clever,” Daenerys scoffed. “Perhaps you would like to be clever about this.” She dropped a scroll before him and gestured with her hand for a guard to bring the torch closer.

Tyrion slowly picked up the piece of parchment and unrolled it, deciphering the spiky handwriting.

_To the most fair and generous hand of her Royal Grace, Daenerys Stormborn, of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Queen of Meereen, Breaker of Shackles and Mother of Dragons_

_I write to Your Grace in what may well be a fool’s errand, yet for the love that I bear the lady whom I serve, I endeavor to these ends none the less._

_I am sworn to the service of the Lady Sansa of House Stark, a name, I am sure, Your Grace is not overly pleased to read, yet turn not from this letter until you read all that I have writ._

_House Stark withholds its forces from further conflict within the Seven Kingdoms, but remains committed to the true heir of the Iron Throne. Should Your Grace prove victorious in reclaiming your birthright, I swear Lady Stark’s allegiances will lie with you. My lady is a young woman, cruelly hardened by a harsh world, and yet still a gentle soul, Your Grace. I pray you not to wreak vengeance upon her and her young brother for sins they did not commit. Such will not endear you to the people whose love you need, something I think you know to be true in your heart._

_I am, for now, a serpent in the army of the pretender, Stannis Baratheon, as he marches against the Lannisters. You will know me when I call to your dragons, and by that knowledge, I pray you will spare me long enough to plead my case, and that of my lady._

_Your Grace’s willing ally,_

_Loki, son of Frigga, Prince of the Royal Houses of Asgard and Jötunheim_

“Well?” Daenerys prompted. “What do you make of it?”

Tyrion hesitated. “He has betrayed Stannis by sending this message to you.”

“Or it could be a trap,” the queen countered. “Meant to lure me into a falls sense of security.”

“But you are under no obligation to adhere to his terms.”

“Do you know of this Prince Loki?”

“I have never heard of him. Nor Asgard and Jötunheim.”

“I have already dealt with one fool who thought he could command my dragons. I will not suffer another. Why should I trust this man, especially if he is in the service of a House that betrayed mine?”

“You have more cause to mistrust me than Sansa,” Tyrion replied, thinking briefly of his second wife. The girl he remembered would never have tried a scheme like this. Either she had changed more than he realized, or this Loki was loyal enough to her to take this kind of risk. Besotted, even. Perhaps both. “Yet you are asking for my counsel.”

“I am still deciding what to do with you. You are a kingslayer, after all.”

“Kinslayer,” he corrected. “I did not kill Joffrey, though, for all that it has brought me, I wish I had.”

“Then this is the deal I am willing to offer you,” Daenerys informed him. “I will permit you to join us on our journey to Westeros, and to counsel me in how to win back my birthright from the usurpers on _all_ sides, but if you betray me, you _will_ be food for my dragons. I won’t even bother with the charade of a trial.”

“And if you win the Iron Throne?”

“ _When_ I win the Iron Throne, you’ll get the reward you deserve.”

“Casterly Rock and a seat on your small council.”

“Perhaps. It depends on how well you serve me.” She knelt down, her violet eyes peering into his. “But I will be watching you very closely, Tyrion Lannister. That I promise.”

“Would it help, your grace, if I had more to tell you? News of the nephew the world believed dead?” he offered with a dry smile, remembering the boy aboard the _Shy Maid,_ the one he had told to sail to Westeros rather than come here. Daenerys’ lovely face pinched inwards in displeasure, but there was a hint of curiosity in her eyes. “Did you not know of him?”

“I shall have you released and given a set of chambers. Once you are more presentable, we will speak of this at length.” Daenerys straightened and swept away from Tyrion, taking the fire and all its light with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I regret to say you will not be getting the full story of how Tyrion wound up in Daenerys’ dungeons, nor how Dany came back to Meereen. This has always been a story about Loki and Sansa, and so these people only matter as far as they can advance that story.
> 
> And I'm not going to apologize for killing Jorah so unceremoniously. D&D trim the fat their way, I trim it my way.


End file.
